


The Bend of the Arc

by profdanglais



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bounty Hunter!Emma, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Stranded Together, criminal!Killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: Emma Swan hates Killian Jones at first sight. He's everything she despises in a man: arrogant, provocative, and a known criminal associate of the city’s most notorious gangster. She’s determined to put him behind bars, until a shocking event forces them together and Emma discovers that there’s a lot more to Killian than meets the eye.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 71
Kudos: 287





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stahlop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stahlop/gifts).



> This story is actually complete (!) and will update weekly. (This has never happened to me before)

She could smell the despair the moment she walked through the door. That wasn’t unexpected; grim places frequented by grimmer people were the bread and butter of her trade and this particular grim place—a grimy hole in the wall near the harbour—bled exactly the same hopelessness as the rest of them. It was, however, not where she’d expected to locate this particular mark, and she didn’t care for the unexpected. In her line of work, unexpected could get you killed. 

He was here, though, right where her informant had said she would find him, and she spotted him the moment she walked through the door. He didn’t even look out of place, despite the expensive cut of his hair and his jacket, despite his goddamned Italian shoes. He should have stood out, been chased away, should never even have known a place like this existed, and yet here he was, slumped over the bar staring moodily into his drink the same as every other sad sack in the joint. 

She didn’t like it. It was unexpected. 

She slid onto the barstool next to him, taking care to allow her hair to drape across his arm. He didn’t move, not so much as a twitch. She exhaled a breathy sigh. No response. 

The direct approach it would have to be, then. 

“Hey.” She nudged him with her elbow. “What’s good here?” 

“Lass.” His eyes never left his glass. “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree with me this evening. I’m not in the mood.” 

“What mood?” She gave a light, tinkling laugh. “I just asked what’s good.” 

“Try the rum.” He drained his glass and set it down firmly on the bar. “The Botucal. Only place in town that serves it. Everything else here is swill.” 

He stood up and left, without so much as a glance in her direction. 

I didn’t matter, though. She’d seen enough to know that it was him, and with her mark positively identified it was time to move in for the kill. She slipped off her stool and followed him out into the night, shivering in the chill breeze that blew in off the sea. She always forgot how much cooler it was near the water. 

She looked around for the mark and spotted him a short distance away, walking in the direction of the marina. Probably headed for his boat, she thought. She hurried to catch him up, moving on the balls of her feet so her heels wouldn’t click on the pavement. 

When she reached him he was just passing the harbourmaster’s office, a small building made of weatherbeaten wooden boards and with its door secured by a heavy iron chain looped through the handles, and she smiled to herself as she extracted her handcuffs from beneath her skirt. Perfect. In one swift, practiced move, she grabbed his arm and snapped a cuff around his wrist. 

“Killian Jones,” she said. “I’m here to—” 

He moved faster than she would have imagined him capable, using her hold on his arm to spin her around and slam her back against the door of the office, knocking the wind out of her. 

He held her there with his body pressed firmly against hers and even in her dazed state she registered the warmth and sturdiness of it, the spicy smell of his skin. His breath ruffled the fine hairs on her temple as he leaned in close to murmur in her ear. “I know precisely who you are, darling, and what you’re here to do,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling purr. “And I’m afraid I can’t allow it. You should have stayed in the bar.” 

“Then I wouldn’t have caught you.” Her own voice was breathy.

“You haven’t caught me now.” 

Her head snapped up at the amusement in his tone and she got a good look at his face for the first time. Even in the faint glow of the harbour lights the sight was breathtaking. Photographs really didn’t do him justice. 

“Yeah? Who’s the one in cuffs?” she retorted. 

There was a tug on her wrist and an ominous click, and the smile on his face became a smirk. “I believe you are, love,” he replied. 

“What the fuck?” She looked down to see her own damn handcuffs, now attached to her own wrist. He held her un-cuffed wrist firmly as he looped the cuffs through the heavy chain securing the door handles then clicked the second one into place on it, chaining her to the door. 

“What the _fuck?_ ” she repeated, her voice rising to a shriek as she tugged on the chain. “How the _hell_ did you—” 

“Come now, you must have read my files. I dare say you know more about me than I do myself.” He held up a small leather case that she recognised as a set of lock picks and regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “Did it never occur to you that I might be able to get myself out of handcuffs? No?” He clucked his tongue. “That is a shame.” 

She tugged at the chain again, “Let me _go!_ ” 

“I fear that’s impossible, darling. As I told you before I can’t allow you to take me in. I have business to attend that won’t wait while I spend the night in a cell.”

“It’ll be a lot more than one night!” 

“It won’t be any nights. Also a shame. I wouldn’t mind at all spending a night with you, particularly one in which bars and handcuffs feature prominently.” He leaned in close to her again, dragging his nose up her cheek as his hand curled around her hip, thumb stroking just above the apex of her thighs. She snarled in outrage and he chuckled. “Beautiful, fiery woman like you,” he growled into her ear. “I’ve no doubt you’d make it memorable.” 

“I wouldn’t—” She was so furious she could barely speak. “Never—not in a _million_ —not if you—the _last_ man—” 

He chuckled again and stepped back. “Aye, love, I get the picture. Not if I were the last man on Earth, et cetera et cetera. I could change your mind, of course—” he smirked at her furious snarl “—but alas I’ve no time.” 

He shrugged off his jacket and moved to drape it around her shoulders and she recoiled with a hiss. “Get the fuck away from me!” 

“Now, darling, you may be here for some time. It’s a chilly night and you are, if you’ll forgive me, not appropriately attired for the sea air. Don’t freeze to death out of spite. If nothing else it’d be a highly embarrassing way to die.” 

She ground her teeth, but when he stepped forward again she allowed him to tuck the jacket around her shoulders. She hadn’t registered just how cold she was until engulfed in its warmth, in heat carried by his body and still bearing his spicy scent. His fingertips brushed the nape of her neck as he pulled her hair free of the jacket and she shivered, not from the cold this time. 

“Such a shame,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

“You’ll pay for this,” she spat. 

“As much as I hate to keep contradicting you, darling, no I won’t.” He smoothed the jacket over her shoulders and gave them a little pat. “Now you just sit tight right here and I’ll send someone to collect you. Let’s hope they don’t take too long.” 

He backed away with his eyes still on her, tilting his head to the side and biting down on his lower lip. Fury surged through her and she yanked at the chains again, letting out a guttural shriek when he simply laughed and turned away. She kept her eyes on him as he strolled along the waterfront like a man without a care in the world, until he turned onto one of the piers and disappeared from view. 

~

“Emma?” 

The voice, masculine and familiar, jolted her from her half-doze and she lifted her head, blinking in the harsh glare of a flashlight and trying to focus.

“Is that— _Graham?_ ” 

“Fucking hell, Emma, it is you! I thought he was—here, let me get you out of those cuffs.” 

Emma struggled up from the awkward crouching position she’d been in as Graham put his flashlight away and took out his keys. “Graham, what the hell are you doing here?” 

“Rescuing you.” 

He undid the cuffs and waited as she stood up straight and stretched her aching arms and shoulders. 

“How did you know where I was?” she asked, reaching out her hand for her cuffs.

He held them out to her, but when she took them didn’t let go. “Emma,” he said solemnly. 

“What?” 

“You’re not gonna like it.” 

“What?” She tugged on the cuffs and he released them. “What the fuck is going on, Graham? Tell me!” 

He sighed. “I need you to stop chasing Killian Jones.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“Come on. We need to go to the station and then I’ll explain.” 

~

“He’s working under _cover_!?”

“Yeah.” Graham’s face was solemn, with no hint of the smile he usually had for her. “He is. For over two years now.” 

“ _Two_ years? Fuck.” 

“Exactly. But it’s nearly over. We’re _so_ close, Emma, to the biggest RICO case of the last fifty years. We can shut down Pan’s whole operation in one move, but all of it, _everything_ , hinges on Jones. We need him.” 

Emma’s lip curled. “And what does he get out of it? Immunity, I suppose.” 

“Yes. His record will be completely expunged. Clean slate.” 

“But he’s a _criminal_!” 

Graham sighed and rubbed his temples. “They _all_ are, Emma.” 

“See, this is why I never wanted to be a cop,” she sneered, leaning back in her chair. They were sitting in an interrogation room in Graham’s precinct, surrounded by confidential files and cold coffee. “You ignore the crimes of one asshole in exchange for getting your hands on a bigger asshole. But that still leaves the first asshole loose on the streets, and with a _clean slate_ this time. How is that justice?”

“Justice is never perfect,” said Graham shortly. “Nothing is. We do the best we can.” 

“That’s not good enough!” 

“It has to be, because it’s all we’ve got.” He leaned across the table, his eyes intense. “Emma, listen to me. Jones believes you actually did him a favour tonight. He’d been getting the sense that Pan no longer fully trusted him, but being actively pursued for a freaking eight-year-old bench warrant of all things seems to have brought him back in the boss’s good graces. That is the only, and I do mean _only_ reason you are not in some serious fucking shit right now.” 

“What, for doing my job?” Emma scoffed. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Do I not seem fucking serious?” snapped Graham. “Did you not hear me say this is the biggest case in half a century? Do you not understand the goddamn consequences if it goes wrong, _especially_ now?”

“I—” 

“Let me be perfectly clear about this. You cannot bring Jones in. If you do, this precinct will never work with you again, and neither will any of the others once they hear about it.” 

“But I—” 

“And that’s not all. I’ve put you in serious danger by giving you this information. I’m sorry for that, but I knew you wouldn’t back off just because I asked you to. And frankly we are all in fucking danger. Jones’s cover is as deep as it gets and the position he’s in right now is deadly precarious. If he’s blown before we can close the case it won’t just be him who dies. Do you hear what I’m saying, Emma?” 

She nodded, too frustrated for speech. 

“I’m trusting you, trusting your discretion and hoping like fuck that this one time you can leave your damn _principles_ at the door and be realistic. Forget about Killian Jones. Not for his sake, for your own.”

~

It was the biggest RICO case in fifty years, and it went off without a hitch. Every member of Pan’s criminal organisation was arrested, from the kids who ran the street-level scams right up to the boss himself. Moles that had been embedded in the police department for decades were rooted out and an entire network of sham businesses collapsed. Crime in the city came screeching to a halt as even Pan’s competitors scrambled for cover. 

The evidence against them was solid, detailed and airtight, and one by one every single mob canary begged to sing. Fingers were pointing in every direction, many at each other but most of them straight at Pan, and the district attorney was confident that with a bit of manoeuvring she could see every last one of them behind bars for a very long time. 

Every one but Killian Jones. 

He was never mentioned by name in any of the reports or the news articles, simply referred to as ‘an undercover informant’. But Emma knew. He’d done one job and now he was free and clear, and the fact that he had spent ten years as Pan’s right hand didn’t even seem to faze the police. 

“How do you know he won’t just step into the power vacuum left by Pan?” she demanded of Graham one afternoon, as he processed the paperwork for a shoplifter she’d brought in. “Someone’s going to.” 

“It won’t be him.” 

“But how can you _know?_ ” 

“I trust him.” 

Emma stared, unable to believe her ears. “I can’t believe I ever considered dating you,” she spat. “You’re not who I thought you were.” 

“You considered dating me?” Graham repeated, gaping at her. 

She shrugged. “Yeah, for like half a second, back when we first met. You were hinting pretty heavily and honestly? I don’t shit where I eat, otherwise I probably would have said yes. But that was before I found out you _trust_ criminals.” 

“Not criminal _s_. Criminal, singular. Just this one.” 

“But why?” 

“I can’t tell you that.” 

“God _damn_ it, Graham!” 

Graham set his jaw stubbornly. “Look, Emma, I get that you feel betrayed and I’m sorry for that. But this is how the police work. It’s legal and it’s final. Killian’s record is clean now. Leave him alone.” 

~

But she couldn’t. She did try, as much as she was able, but Emma Swan could never let anything go once her sense of outrage had been triggered and she couldn’t think about Killian Jones or anything related to him without outrage. She still had the jacket he’d left her in, hung in her closet right next to her own so that every time she donned the red leather she saw it there, mocking her, keeping her anger burning fierce and hot. 

And so she watched him. Subtly, because she could be fucking subtle, using her own network of informants that the cops didn’t know about. She tracked his movements, all his comings and goings from his house to his offices, and she traced his business dealings, bank records, tax reports, everything and anything she could get her hands on. 

It was all clean. He was never seen in any of Pan’s old haunts or associating with anyone remotely shady, his accounts showed a healthy income from legitimate sources. Businesses he had set up as part of his role in Pan’s organisation and then cleaned up once Pan was taken down. 

And yet. There was too much income, Emma felt. It was _too_ clean. Too much money, too many businesses, far too quickly. Leopards, as the cliche goes, do not change their spots, and Emma was certain that Killian Jones was as spotted as they came. She just wished she knew how he was hiding them. 

~

The elegant marble foyer of the Gold mansion was the furthest imaginable thing from a grimy dockside dive bar but the smell of despair was here as well, just of a different kind. The despair of people who have more money than they could ever spend and are still unhappy, who have come to realise that however many cars or jewels or houses they buy the emptiness inside them remains. 

At least the other smells were better. Emma inhaled deeply as she entered, breathing in the aromas of a dozen different perfumes and colognes, along with some mouthwatering canapés of which she fully intended to partake. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to wrangle this invitation, she might as well enjoy herself. 

Snagging a glass of champagne from one passing tray and a mini crab soufflé topped with caviar from another, she sauntered into the room, deliberately drawing and ignoring the eyes upon her. The dress she wore was far subtler than her usual work attire, long and flowing and draped in a way that suggested far more than it revealed. Its deep crimson hue flattered her pale hair and skin and the faint shimmer in the fabric caught the light as she moved. 

Emma popped the last bite of soufflé into her mouth and resisted the urge to lick her fingers. Instead she sipped her champagne and looked around for another tray. One passed by bearing what looked like tiny donuts and she almost dove to grab one. Biting into it, she found that it was savoury and filled with a feather-light truffled chicken mousse. She closed her eyes on a moan of delight, and when she opened them again Killian Jones was standing in front of her, watching her with an expression she found deeply objectionable. 

“Well, darling, I do hope you’re not here for me this time,” he said. 

Emma sneered. “I’m not.” 

“Learnt our lesson, have we?” he replied with a smirk. 

She ground her teeth. “I’ve simply got bigger fish to hook,” she said. 

“Indeed. Considering that I am an entirely innocent man.” 

She snorted. 

“That infuriates you, doesn’t it,” he observed, smirk deepening. “That I walked free.” 

Nearly a year’s worth of frustration and righteous fury bubbled up inside Emma, bursting forth before she could stop it. “It’s not _right!_ ” she exclaimed. “It’s not _justice!_ ” 

“No, it’s just not perfect justice. Though one certainly could argue that a decade spent under the thumb of a madman is more than enough punishment for whatever crimes I committed.” 

Something in his voice troubled her, a pained sincerity that niggled at her conscience. She ignored it. “Rationalise it all you like, if it helps you sleep at night,” she retorted. 

“Oh, I have no trouble sleeping,” he said, stepping closer and leaning into her space, hips first. “Though occasionally I do forgo it voluntarily, in favour of more… enjoyable activities.” 

“You’re filthy.” 

“I certainly can be,” he purred. “If that’s what you want.” 

“I want nothing from you.” 

“Well love, we both know that’s not true.” 

“Oh do we?” 

“We do. You’re something of an open book, you see.” 

She rolled her eyes. “I am the opposite of that.” 

“You’d like to be. But for those who know how to look, your tells are obvious.” 

“Bullshit.” 

He shifted, standing straighter and observing her with blue eyes that went, between one blink and the next, from flirtatious to coolly assessing, sharply analytical. She felt a flare of alarm in her chest, and the worrying suspicion that she may have underestimated him. 

“The relaxed posture,” he said. “That’s one. You’re a woman of action, rarely still. If you stop moving you start thinking, and you, Emma Swan, hate nothing more than being in your own head. You’re tense all the time unless you’re pretending not to be, as you are now. Playing the role of carefree society girl, perfectly at home in these glittering surroundings where you are in actual fact deeply uncomfortable.”

She attempted a laugh. “Maybe I’m just having a good time.” 

“You’re holding that glass so tightly you’re in danger of snapping the stem, and you’re digging the heel of your shoe into the floor. It takes a lot of effort to maintain that outward calm, which is why you don’t normally bother. You hate artifice, bullshit as you would call it, and your plan tonight is to get in, get your mark and get out. After you’ve eaten your fill of the food, that is.” The corner of his mouth curled into a half-smile. “Do correct me if any of this is wrong.” 

“It’s all wrong,” she snapped. 

“Now, love, don’t _you_ start to bullshit.”

Emma’s fingers clenched tighter on the champagne glass and she deliberately forced them to relax. “Why don’t you just leave me alone,” she hissed. 

His eyes softened, and heated with an expression that made her belly clench. “Because you intrigue me,” he murmured. 

“Well you disgust me.” 

He laughed. “Liar.” 

“How _dare_ you—” 

He brushed a lock of hair off her shoulder, his fingers close enough that she could feel the heat of them but not their touch, and when he spoke again his voice was rough. “You’ve a delightful pale pink flush all across your skin, your pupils are dilated, your breathing shallow. And your pulse—” His hand glided down her arm and wrapped around her wrist, fingertips pressing gently onto her pulse point. “It’s racing, love. I don’t require any special skills to pick up on these tells.” He caught her gaze, his own heated and intense. “Would it help if I confessed that the attraction is entirely mutual?” 

“No!” 

“Pity.” 

She tried to pull her arm from his grip but he held fast, leaning closer still to murmur in her ear. “He’s over by the fountain.” 

She wouldn’t look, thought Emma. She _wouldn’t_. She closed her eyes as Killian released her and the heat and intoxicating scent of him moved away. She didn’t want his help, didn’t need it. Resented it. But she couldn’t stop herself from looking and of course there he was. Her mark, standing in front of the fountain at the centre of the room. 

“How the hell did you know—” she spun around but Killian was gone. 

Emma took a deep breath and then another, to calm herself and focus her concentration on her task. She smoothed her hair and the front of her dress and tossed back the rest of her champagne, gave her boobs a little boost and headed for the mark, a soft smile on her face and a gentle swing in her hips. 

She had crossed about half the distance between them when he tensed visibly and his shoulders shifted, like he was trying to pull them back and stand straight but was defeated by the power of his own sullen slouch. For a moment she thought he might have made her, but his eyes were fixed on something across the room, something—or someone—blocked from her view by the fountain. Emma slowed her pace, keeping her distance until he made whatever move he had planned. For several seconds he stared intently at whatever, _whoever_ , held his attention and then he nodded, shoulders slumping even lower than they’d been before, and moved on surprisingly light and agile feet towards a small door behind the foyer’s grand staircase. With a quick glance around the room he slipped silently though it and a moment later Emma followed. 

Behind the door was a long, shadowy hallway that fulfilled her every expectation of what a mansion corridor should look like. The carpet beneath her feet was so thick that her steps made no sound as she followed the mark, past paintings and statues and even an honest-to-goodness suit of armour. She felt her jaw drop as she took it all in, until the mark turned a corner and she had to speed up her pursuit so as not to lose him. 

She made it around the corner in time to catch a glimpse of him disappearing through a door, and when she reached it she found that it hadn’t fully shut. She slipped her foot through the gap and eased it open until she could see into the room beyond. 

It looked like a museum. Or at least what she imagined museums should look like; she hadn’t visited many. It was a vast room that felt curiously airless, with tall ceilings and no widows, panelled entirely in wood. The same wood that made up the many low tables scattered over more of the same thick rugs that lined the hallway. Upon each of these tables a statue stood. Women, mostly, and some men, all naked. Made of marble, Emma imagined, though she was hardly an expert. Weren’t statues generally made of marble? They were definitely some kind of stone, or she supposed possibly plaster. It was hard to tell the difference from so far away. 

Tentatively she nudged the door and when it made no noise pushed it open further and slipped into the room, weaving through the statues in search of her mark. A voice spoke just ahead and to her right and she moved quickly over the silent carpets, stopping when she caught sight of a pair of polished shoes and the tip of a black cane, and ducking behind a statue, out of sight of the man who spoke.

“So,” he said, his voice cold and without inflection, and with a hint of an accent she couldn’t place. “Do you have it?” 

“I—” the mark began.

“Do not disappoint me, Felix,” the cold voice interrupted. “You would not like for me to be disappointed.” 

Emma crouched down and peeked around the leg of the statue that shielded her, just enough so she could see both men clearly. The mark, Felix, was in his early twenties, with a sullen face to match his posture and lank blond hair that fell into his eyes. He’d been arrested for loitering two months ago and missed his court date, but there was nothing else on his record worse than a few shoplifting charges and possession with intent. This meeting, this whole damn situation, seemed well above his pay grade and she should have _known_ that, Emma berated herself. She should have smelled a rat from the start, but instead she’d let herself be distracted by canapés and by Killian goddamn Jones, and forgotten what she was supposed to be doing. 

She could almost hear Felix’s terrified gulp. “I—I couldn’t get it,” he whined. “Jones said—” 

“Do not speak to me of Killian Jones,” hissed the other man, a slight, elegantly dressed one with long hair and a thin face in which teeth and eyes were prominent. “I will deal with him when the time is right. For now—” He lifted his cane and Felix cringed. 

“No, sir, please. I’ll get it I promise—” 

“Your promises are worthless to me,” said the elegant man, with a reptilian smile that made Emma’s skin crawl. He was _enjoying_ this, she realised, feeding off of Felix’s terror and craven grovelling as he slowly advanced. He twisted the head of his cane and with a faint swish and a mechanical clank a long, sharp blade appeared from the end of it. Felix stared at the blade, frozen in fear. 

“They are, in fact,” the elegant man continued, closing the remaining distance between them, “as worthless as you are.” He bared his teeth and plunged the blade into Felix’s heart. 

Emma gasped. She couldn’t help it. For all the hardships she’d suffered in her life—the uncaring foster families, the time on the streets, the teenage pregnancy—she had never witnessed a crime more serious than petty theft and drug dealing. Nothing like cold-blooded murder. She would have liked to think herself tough enough to handle the sight without flinching but she was overcome by the sheer horror of it. The blood that bloomed across Felix’s shirt and the way the life drained from his body. The cold, cold triumph of the man who killed him. It was the worst thing she’d ever seen, could ever imagine seeing, and though she clapped her hand across her mouth it was too late. The noise of her indrawn breath was loud in the room’s still air and the man looked sharply at her. He couldn’t see her behind the statue—she didn’t think he could—but he knew precisely where she was. 

“Well, well,” he said. “It appears we have a loose end.” 

Emma ran. She didn’t hesitate or stop to think, just leapt up from her crouch and sprinted, as fast as her high heels and the confusing layout of the statues would allow. She had no idea if the man had any backups—he seemed the sort who would, though she hadn’t seen or heard anyone but himself and Felix—but she knew that no matter what it was riskier to try to hide than just to run, to put as much distance between herself and the man as she could and try to get away. 

She headed straight for where she thought the door was but soon found herself disoriented. There was no clear path through the statues and they all looked the same—white limbs and torsos atop identical tables, on a carpet with the same repeating pattern, in a room with no markings of any kind on the walls. She could hear the man behind her, his steady breathing as he pursued her across the thick carpet, not running, of course not, because doing so would tire him and that steady, deliberate pace was far more terrifying, _damn_ him, and she tried to run faster, grabbing blindly at a small piece of statue as she passed. It was lighter than she’d expected—perhaps plaster then, not stone—and she flung it back the way she’d come, not looking at where it flew, not stopping to see what it hit when it crashed and shattered behind her. 

She reached the wall but there was no door on it, just identical wooden panels repeating all along its length. One of those must be the door, Emma thought. There had to be a door, she’d come in through one. She began to feel along the wall looking for a knob or a button or a loose join, anything at all that might trigger it to open. Now that she was no longer running she felt her fear much more acutely, gripping her chest and clouding her mind and edging her dangerously close to panic. 

“I don’t know who you are,” called the elegant man’s voice, from much closer behind her than she’d hoped. “But I’m very much taken with your lovely hair and that glorious red dress. Very… memorable, both of them. Very _distinct._ ” 

Emma’s search for the door grew frantic. She tried to keep calm and focused but all she could think was that she was alone in this room with a murderer. An absolutely remorseless killer was mere feet behind her and there was no door. There was no _fucking_ door and that meant no escape. She was trapped here in this airless, noiseless place and she was going to die. 

A sob rose in her throat, almost drowning the soft click to her left. The panel next to her swung open and she could just make out the silhouette of a man among the shadows of the hallway beyond. Was this the backup, then, she wondered? A henchman come to block her escape, force her back into the clutches of the elegant man? The appearance of this new threat snapped her back into herself, gave her something to _do_ , and she seized on that with desperate relief. Holding herself loose but alert she bent her knees, settled her weight over the balls of her feet and prepared to defend herself as best she could. It wasn’t likely she could stop them killing her, but she could damned well make it difficult, and now that the door was open she had at least a slim chance of escape. 

The shadows shifted as the man in the doorway reached out with a speed and deftness of movement she’d seen only once before, and quicker than she could react he grabbed her and yanked her against him, clapping his hand over her mouth and pinning her arms to her sides, pulling her back through the door and letting it fall shut behind them. When it had latched with another soft click, the man swung Emma to one side and gave the door a sharp kick with the heel of his shoe, jamming the delicate mechanism that controlled it. 

Emma seized the advantage of his momentary imbalance to try to struggle free, wriggling in his loosened grasp and aiming a kick at his instep, but again he was too quick for her. He shifted his weight to avoid her swinging foot and adjusted his hold, tucking her tightly against his side and dragging her with him as he headed away from the door, moving rapidly despite her furious squirming, along the hallway and down a darkened stairwell and through a side door of the mansion then out into the night. 

“I have a car waiting,” he growled in her ear, picking up their pace now they were out of the house. “It’s idling at the end of this driveway. If you don’t get in it, _right_ now, you will die. Don’t make me tie you up, Swan. As much as I would enjoy that in other circumstances.” 

Emma could see the car he meant, the only one in the long driveway that was running. When they reached it she dug her heels hard into the loose gravel beneath them, throwing Killian Jones—because of course it was fucking him—off balance just enough that his grip loosened and she was able to jam her elbow into his ribs, wriggling away when he huffed in pain. 

“Let _go_ of me!” she shrieked. 

“Keep your voice down,” he snarled, grabbing her arm and pulling her back again. He scowled down at her, his eyes angry and frustrated and scared. It was the fear that caught Emma’s attention, made her pause. “I should bloody well let him kill you,” Killian muttered. “But instead I am going to save your life, whether you like it or not. Now get in the damned car, woman.” 

Emma yanked her arm from his grasp and this time he let her go. They stood glaring at each other, breathing hard, gripped by a very similar anger and, more worryingly, the exact same fear. 

“Why should I trust you?” she demanded.

“You have no earthly reason to,” he replied. “But that man you saw in the gallery, that is Robert Gold, and however vile you think me I assure you he is a hundred times worse. The devil or the deep blue sea, take your pick, love.” 

Emma stared at him, searching for the lie, for the deceit she knew had to be there. But there was none. For the first time in their acquaintance he was being completely serious, and completely honest. _Damn_ it. 

She got in the car. 

-


	2. PART TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So by popular demand, here is part two, earlier than anticipated. I hope so, so much that it doesn't disappoint.

The car was silent as it moved through the dark city streets. Killian kept his eyes on the road while Emma stared out the window at the neon signs and streetlights smudged into watery blurs by the tears she kept having to blink back. It was a weighty silence, heavy with tension, but she felt no itchy discomfort or urge to fill it as she often did whenever she found herself alone with people she didn’t know well. She supposed this should surprise her, but she had no energy left for surprise. Now that the adrenaline was draining out of her she felt exhausted, and deeply, achingly sad. 

She blinked again as more tears welled, fighting to keep them contained, not wanting to show any weakness in front of Killian. But they were too strong and she was too tired. They dripped down her cheeks and off her chin and she choked on a sob—then something soft brushed against her arm and she glanced over to see Killian holding out a handkerchief. 

“Go ahead and cry,” he said. 

Emma wiped her face with her palms. “I don’t need—” 

“Yes you do. You’re human and you witnessed something terrible. Cry.” He shook the handkerchief at her. 

She sobbed again and snatched it from his fingers, buried her face in it and let the tears pour out. Her mind kept replaying, over and over, the scene in the gallery—the blade sinking into Felix’s chest, the awful sound it made and the hiss of satisfaction from the elegant man— _Robert Gold_ —as he pushed it in to the hilt. She cried until her tears dried up and her sobs were hollow gasps, and then she leaned her head against the window with the sodden handkerchief still covering her eyes.

The car stopped and she removed the handkerchief, squeezing her eyes shut then blinking rapidly to clear them. They were at the marina. That made sense, Emma thought. Killian’s boat was his pride and joy—a sailing yacht, sleek and elegant and above all, fast. The perfect vessel for making a quick getaway. Killian got out of the car and she did the same, turning to head in the direction of his mooring. 

“It’s this way, Swan,” he said, and she turned to see him pointing at a mooring directly ahead of them. 

“But your—” 

“We’re not taking mine. Come, quickly now.” 

She followed him to another boat, still in the yacht class but far smaller than his, and without sails. She stopped in front of it as he began to untie it from its mooring. 

“This isn’t yours,” she stated. 

“Aye, I believe we’ve established that.” 

“So you’re stealing it.” 

“Not precisely.” 

Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re taking a boat that isn’t yours and definitely isn’t mine, how is that not stealing?” 

“Bloody _hell_ ,” Killian snarled as he tossed the lines up onto the boat’s deck, “you are the most _infuriating_ creature.” He rounded on her with a menacing glower but she held her ground, arms still crossed, glaring back until he sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes. “This boat belongs to an employee of mine,” he said. “We’re borrowing it. He’ll get it back in due course, and in one piece too as long as you _bloody_ cooperate. We need to be as far away as possible before Gold realises I’m the one who helped you get away, and that means we need to leave _now_.” 

“But—” 

“Swan,” he enunciated through clenched teeth. “Get. On. The. Bloody. Boat.” 

Emma released her breath in a hiss but did as he asked, stalking up to the deck and standing stiffly as he made the preparations to launch, his every action economical and precise. Well practiced. This may not be his boat but he knew it well, and she tried to let that reassure her. 

Soon they were leaving the marina and heading for the open water. Emma watched Killian at the helm, steering the boat with tension in his shoulders and a frown between his eyes, but as they moved further and further from the shore with nothing untoward occurring he began visibly to relax. About twenty minutes after their departure, by Emma’s estimation, he turned to her with what was almost a smile. 

“We’ll be on the water for several hours,” he said. “You should get some rest.” 

She wanted to protest, didn’t want to let him out of her sight for a moment. But exhaustion weighed heavily on her body and mind, and the wind off the sea was cuttingly cold. “Where?” she asked.

He indicated a small door just to the left of the helm. “Down there. There’s a sleeping berth in the stern, with pillows and blankets in the drawer beneath it.”

She nodded, hesitating just a moment longer before opening the door to reveal a narrow set of stairs. Slipping off her shoes, she climbed down them and stumbled towards the rear of the boat where she found the sleeping berth, pillows and blankets just where Killian had said they would be. After a brief moment of wishing she had something to wear besides her evening gown she wrapped a thick woollen blanket around herself, curled up on the narrow bed and fell asleep. 

~

“Swan. Swan!” 

“Huh? Wha—” 

“You have to wake up now, love. Hurry.” 

Emma blinked hazily through the thick fog of sleep clouding her brain. Where was she? She rubbed her eyes and forced herself to focus. Wherever she was it was dimly lit, but there was a spicy scent in the air that she remembered and that voice—oh. _Right_.

She sat bolt upright as the memories came rushing back. 

“Ah, there you are,” said Killian. “Good. Come with me, and bring that blanket.” 

Emma opened her mouth to argue, then caught the look on his face and shut it again. Her mind felt clearer, she realised, sharper than it had before her nap, the horror at what she’d witnessed less acute—and the reality of the situation and the danger they were in struck her like a blow. Her life was linked to Killian’s now, her survival dependent on him, and if she argued and second-guessed him all the time they were going to get nowhere fast. She nodded her agreement and he huffed a sigh of relief, turning to head back up on deck. She grabbed the blanket and her shoes and followed him. 

The boat was moored on a tiny pier in what to her surprise appeared to be not the ocean at all but a lake, a wide, calm one surrounded by tall trees with taller mountains rising up behind them. Aside from the pier, there was no sign of any human presence, no cabins or boat houses, not even a tent. The air was cool and misty, and with such a heavy stillness Emma almost fancied she could touch it.

Killian disembarked and she followed again, down the pier to where another, far smaller boat was tied. A basic motorboat, Emma observed, and not a new one, with an outboard motor and a single bench seat. Not suitable for long distances. Wherever they were headed, they must be close to it. 

Killian reached into the motorboat and removed two waterproof jackets and life vests. “Put these on,” he said, handing one of each to Emma. She did, and he donned the others, putting them on over the tuxedo he still wore. When the jackets were zipped and the life vests secured, Killian stepped one foot into the boat and held out his hand. Emma scowled but took it without protest, shivering at the contact, and allowed him to help her into the boat. She settled down onto one side of the bench and Killian passed her the blanket. 

“You’ll want to tuck this around your legs. We don’t have too far to go but it’ll be at least an hour and very cold.” 

She nodded and did as he suggested, wrapping it securely around herself and digging her icy toes into the wool as Killian started the motor. Emma jumped in alarm at the noise, ear-splittingly loud in the soft, dense quiet. He sat next to her on the bench and took the rudder, piloting the boat in a wide arc that took them into the centre of the lake then veering left. It looked at first as though they were heading for the shore, but as they approached Emma could see the narrow mouth of a river peeking out between the trees. Killian steered them into it, navigating carefully between the banks until the river widened to a more comfortable size. They continued steadily along it for some time, the only view of water and trees and the sky beginning to lighten above them. 

Emma had a million questions: where they were and how they had ended up there, where they were going and what would happen when they arrived, how Killian had known where to find her in that gallery and how he seemed to know what she’d witnessed there. Why he was going to so much trouble to help her. But she asked none of them. There would be time for that later, plenty of it, she sensed, and right now the cool calm of the morning and the strange peace that had settled between them, even the hum of the boat’s motor, was soothing, and she didn’t wish to ruin it. 

The river widened steadily until it opened into another lake, this one long and slender and curved at one end. Killian took them around the curve and when they cleared it she could see a small pier with no boats moored but a dark green Jeep parked on the shore behind it. 

He pulled the boat up to the pier and cut the engine, then looped a coil of rope around a piling to secure it. Bracing one leg against the pier, he held out his hand again and this time she didn’t hesitate to take it, or to lean on him for support as she climbed out. Killian released her hand quickly but remained close behind her as they approached the Jeep. He opened the unlocked rear door and tossed his life vest and waterproof jacket into the back. Emma did the same, shivering in the chilly air. 

“Keep the blanket,” Killian said. “We’ve a bit of a drive yet.” 

Keys were waiting beneath the visor on the driver's side and as soon as they were settled Killian brought the Jeep roaring to life and drove straight into the forest, steering them through a near-invisible gap in the trees. Emma clung to the door handle and her calm as he navigated them over the rough terrain. They followed no path she could see, nothing but the faintest tire tracks barely visible on the forest floor ahead—though if she hadn’t been looking carefully Emma doubted she’d have spotted them. 

Killian knew where he was going, though, that much was obvious. He’d known from the beginning. Every step of their escape had been meticulously planned and smoothly executed, which added at least another half dozen questions to her list. 

Their way began to twist upward, climbing into the mountains. The Jeep jolted over rocks and fallen branches as it sped along a course that was far from straight and at times seemed actually to double back on itself, confusing Emma’s already tired mind and hopelessly scrambling her sense of direction. The sun was up by that time—she could see daylight through the leaves—but the canopy of trees was too thick to make out its location in the sky. 

After thirty-seven minutes according to the clock on the Jeep’s dash, they turned into a clearing where a small cabin stood dwarfed amongst some of the tallest trees Emma had ever seen. Their height and the elevation of their lowest branches gave the impression of airy space within the clearing yet she doubted it could easily be seen from above—the trees’ thick canopy of leaves would appear solid, though enough sunlight filtered through to make it bright and relatively warm. The cabin sat at its centre, a small wooden structure with generous windows and a stone chimney and on its tiny porch a single chair, and when she got out of the Jeep Emma spotted what looked like a fire pit around the back of it. 

Killian went onto the porch and opened the door. Emma frowned, surprised that it was unlocked, but once inside he pressed his thumb against a small screen in the wall, nearly invisible, and a panel slid open to reveal another, larger screen. Killian stood still as it scanned his face then when the display switched to a keypad, he typed in a very long code. When it was entered a red light on the inside of the panel flashed green, and Killian closed it over the screen once more. 

“Hell of a security system,” observed Emma. 

“We’ll be safe here.” 

She followed him into a cosy, sparsely furnished room. A stone fireplace took up most of one wall, with a stack of logs beside it and a single armchair positioned at the perfect angle to catch the warmth of the flames. Next to the chair a table sat, with a reading lamp atop it. There was no sofa, but an old sea chest was pushed up beneath one of the windows, covered in pillows and a throw blanket to form a window seat. Tucked into the corner to her right was a well-equipped kitchen area with two doors beyond it—bedroom and bathroom, Emma presumed. Everything was austerely tasteful and looked expensive, which came as no surprise to her; Killian was a man who appreciated his creature comforts. What did surprise her were the books. Shelves and shelves of them, lining one entire wall from floor to ceiling. Emma would have suspected them of being for display, or even fake—the shelves could hide a secret escape passage, for example, she’d seen crazier things that day—except that they weren’t leather-bound or elegant, they were ordinary books. Hardbacks and paperbacks, some old and others much newer, lined up tidily but also plainly there to be read. 

She turned to Killian with a sceptical look. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that this is actually your cabin.” 

“It is, in fact,” he replied. 

“Huh.” 

“That surprises you?” 

She shrugged. “You don’t exactly seem like the outdoorsy type.” 

“I’m not. But despite the adage that the best place to hide a pin is amongst other pins, sometimes alone in the wilderness is the safest place to be.” 

“Uh huh. Interesting that an _innocent_ man like you would need a safe place at all,” she retorted. “Seeing as how you’re so completely _innocent_ and all.”

“Yes, yes, point taken, love,” he said with a smirk and an exaggerated sigh. “But my innocence or lack thereof aside, my line of work remains dangerous and my associates highly untrustworthy. There’s always someone out to hurt me and no telling when they might find the opportunity to do so. I’m very good at what I do, but I’d be a fool not to prepare for contingencies.” 

“You could just get a different line of work.” 

He laughed. “Ah, Swan, things are very simple in your world, aren’t they?” 

“Why make them complicated when they don’t need to be?” 

“That is indeed the question.” 

He went through one of the doors and emerged a minute later with an armload of clothing. “I’m afraid I wasn’t planning for visitors, so you’ll have to make do with my clothes,” he said. “The bathroom’s through there.” 

The room he indicated turned out to be a surprisingly generous space given the size of the rest of the cabin, enough to accommodate a claw-foot tub with a shower head above it and a circular rail hung with a curtain. The sink was a deep pedestal flanked by tall shelves, and the toilet nestled in the corner. 

Emma stripped off her dress, wincing at the state of it—dirty and wrinkled and stretched in odd ways—and draped it over the shower rail with a sigh of relief. She was never very comfortable in clothes like that, and the soft garments Killian had given her were an extremely welcome change. They included a plain white t-shirt and flannel pajama pants in grey and blue plaid, and a thick, fleecy charcoal grey sweatshirt that swallowed her up. Emma sighed, snuggling into it. Despite the blanket she felt like she’d been cold for forever, and the huge, toasty sweatshirt felt amazing. 

He’d also given her a pair of thick socks, a toothbrush, and a washcloth. Emma sat on the edge of the tub to pull the socks on, sighing again at the warmth, then brushed her teeth and scrubbed her face with the washcloth, removing as much of her smudged makeup as she could. She found a comb on a shelf next to the sink and carefully combed the worst of the tangles from her hair, wishing she could pull it into a ponytail or braid, but she doubted Killian’s provisions extended to rubber bands or hair clips. 

Still, she felt immensely better, warmer and less grimy, and very, very sleepy. Leaving the bathroom she found Killian in the kitchen, dressed in pajama bottoms similar to hers though his shirt was a blue henley. The clothes made him look softer, more approachable, and she had to remind herself that he was still the man she’d spent the past year loathing and that all the cabins and henleys and daring rescues in the world would never change that. She couldn’t allow them to. 

He turned around and smiled at her, and held out a steaming mug. She took it, sniffing warily. 

“What’s this?” 

“Hot milk, with honey and a little rum.” 

“Really?” She wrinkled her nose. 

“Aye, an odd combination I grant you, but soothing. It’ll help you sleep.” 

“I don’t think I’ll need any help on that front,” she said, stifling a yawn as though to prove the point. 

“Quite understandable, you’ve had a hell of a day. Drink it anyway.” He nodded approvingly when she did, and when her eyebrows rose in surprise at the pleasantly sweet, creamy flavour. “You can take it into the bedroom if you like,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

It took her a second to register his words and then she nearly spit out her drink. “You’ll be—but—you don’t mean—” 

He watched her calmly, one eyebrow quirked, clearly expecting this exact reaction. “It’s a small cabin, Swan, intended for one person. We’re going to be here for some time, weeks perhaps. I do not intend to spend those weeks sleeping in an armchair or God forbid the floor. We’ll share the bed. It’s the only way.” 

“Oh, well isn’t that _fucking_ convenient,” she spat, even as lust coiled low in her belly. 

“Not really. I prefer to sleep alone.” 

“That’s sure as hell not what you implied before!” 

“Sleep, Swan, not sex.” Emma blinked at this, accustomed to smirky quips and innuendoes from him. “For that of course I like to have a partner.” 

She wished there was some argument she could make, some reason she could think of why he had to sleep as far away from her as possible, but the direct, straightforward way he spoke and looked at her underlined the truth of his claim. That and his obvious exhaustion, the dark smudges under the eyes he was fighting to keep open. 

Still she hesitated, biting her lip as she scrambled for an alternative. Maybe she could take the chair, she thought, or—Killian sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. 

“Look,” he said. “I realise I’ve given you compelling cause to believe otherwise, but I really have no interest in pursuing women who find me repugnant. I swear to you on every scrap of honour I have left that I only wish to get some sleep, and you should too. Can we do that, Emma? Please?” 

That _please_ , and the use of her name, the sound of it in his voice, did funny things to Emma’s insides. It was a genuine plea from an honest place, and she couldn’t refuse it. 

“Okay,” she said. 

He smiled, the first true smile she’d seen from him. It made him look boyish and almost sweet, and the funny feeling in her chest twisted painfully. 

“You go on in,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute. And finish your milk.” 

She smiled in return—she couldn’t help it—and retreated into the bedroom, sipping her milk. The bed was a decent size at least, laid with fluffy pillows and a thick comforter that she snuggled beneath with a hum of delight, yawning hugely and just managing to set her empty cup on the table next to her pillows before burrowing deep into them and pulling the comforter up to her chin, and by the time Killian slid into bed next to her she was sound asleep. 

~

When she woke again the pillow beside her was empty, though she could see the indent where Killian’s head had rested and smell the faint traces of spice. Light shone through the bedroom’s tall window, dappled by the trees and angled in a way that suggested late afternoon. Emma listened carefully but heard nothing at all; the silence was so complete it was eerie. 

She got out of bed somewhat reluctantly. It was warm beneath the comforter and the air in the room was cool, though the thick socks she wore protected her feet from the bare floorboards and made no noise as she crept across them to the door. She eased it open until she could see Killian, sitting in the armchair in front of a small but lively fire, still dressed in the clothes he’d slept in. A plate with half a sandwich and some apple slices sat on the table next to him, and in his lap lay a thick book. As she watched he reached for the plate and took an apple slice, munching it as he turned a page. 

Emma pushed the door open completely and went through it, approaching him cautiously. “Um,” she said, and he looked up with a somewhat tentative smile. 

“Swan. How did you sleep?” 

“Pretty well,” she replied, moving further into the room. “I feel rested. I mean, I’m still—I still—” Her heart still ached with sorrow for Felix and clenched in fear when she thought of Gold, but trying to articulate either feeling had her throat closing up in protest. She wanted to talk about it but also she _really_ didn’t. 

His expression shifted to one of such gentle understanding it left her blinking in astonishment. “Aye,” he said. “The mind is like any other organ, damage to it will take time to heal. Don’t try to force it.” 

She nodded gratefully just as her stomach chose that moment to growl, long and rumbly and very loud. “Oh my God,” she groaned, pressing a hand to her belly and another over her eyes. He laughed. 

“Canapés were a long time ago,” he said. “What would you like to eat?” 

“Um, a sandwich is fine, if that’s what you’re having.” 

“Have whatever you like, I’ve got plenty of everything. We’re decently stocked to last a few months, if necessary. There’s bread and cheese and some lunch meat, and tins of tuna. Eggs, some bacon, soup. Apples and oranges, potatoes, meat in the freezer. Plenty of milk. What would you like?” 

“Would it be okay if I made myself a grilled cheese?” 

“Of course. Whatever’s in the kitchen, feel free to use it.”

Emma located some thick-sliced bread in a wooden bin and a block of real cheese in the fridge, and a slab of butter in a dish on the countertop. She scowled as she sliced the cheese as thinly as she could manage and spread butter on the bread. It was all undoubtedly better than the thin white bread and processed cheese she usually ate, but grilled cheese was about _comfort_ , not quality. She wanted some damn junk food. 

She strongly suspected that Killian Jones did not do junk food. 

The resulting sandwich was good, though, very good she had to admit, even if it wasn’t precisely what she was craving. She hummed in enjoyment as she took a bite, salty and crunchy and oozing with cheese. 

“You don’t have to stand over the stove, love.” Killian’s voice was amused. “You can sit here.” 

“No, it’s okay.” Emma put her sandwich on a plate and carried it over to the window seat, sitting down and curling her legs beneath her. “I’m okay here.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yep.” 

They ate in silence for a moment before she spoke. 

“So how do you know Graham?” 

A flash of genuine surprise crossed Killian’s face, and for a moment he was speechless. Emma licked a drop of cheese off her thumb with a small smirk. 

“Er, he was my police contact when I was—” 

She waved this away. “Yeah, yeah, your contact when you were undercover, but how do you _know_ him?” 

He looked at her warily. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh come on,” she mocked, “you don’t think you’re the only one who knows how to read a tell?” When he didn’t reply, she gave an exaggerated sigh. “Graham trusts you. Despite knowing who you are and the things you’ve done he trusts you _completely_. The most upright cop I’ve ever known just takes it on faith that you’re telling the whole truth and that bringing down Pan was for the good of society and not just to benefit you, or to clear a path for you to take over crime in the city. So I have to ask myself why that is. What could possibly lead to that kind of trust between a cop and a gangster?”

Killian’s expression was still wary, but with the tiniest glimmer of admiration in his eye. 

“And what was your conclusion?” he asked. 

“Well, fortunately men are simple creatures and so the answer is pretty obvious.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Mmm hmm.” 

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do enlighten me.” 

Emma watched him intently as she replied. “You were kids together.”

“Were we?” His expression didn’t change but Emma’s livelihood relied on pinpoint observation and she did not miss the tiny twitch of his eyelid that confirmed her conclusion. She suppressed the urge to do a fist-pump. 

“Yep,” she said, not a little smugly. “Or maybe not kids, but still pretty young. I know Graham was kind of a loner growing up, so maybe you were his first friend. You shared some sort of very intense masculine bonding experience and even now, decades later, you still feel that bond, despite what you both have become. Stop me if any of this is incorrect.” 

The corner of Killian’s mouth twitched as he tried to suppress a grin. “Graham says you’re the best at what you do,” he remarked wryly. “I can see why.” 

Emma polished off the last of her sandwich and licked her fingers, then set the plate aside and leaned back against the windowsill with a triumphant smirk. “So what was it?” she asked. “Boy Scout camp? First orgy?” 

“We were in the navy together.” 

That wiped the smirk clean off her face. “ _You_ were in the navy?” 

“I was,” he said with a smirk of his own. “Her Majesty’s Royal one.” 

“But isn’t Graham Irish? What was he doing in the British Navy?” 

“Northern Ireland, love. Part of the UK. Whether they like it or not, as I remind Graham as often as I can.” 

“Huh.” Killian’s expression was amused but his eyes were cool and shuttered. She sensed he was deflecting, trying to distract her. “So what happened with you two?” she persisted.

He huffed a small sigh. “Is there a purpose to this interrogation, Swan?” 

“Just trying to get to the bottom of you.” 

“Why would you do that, when the surface of me is far more pleasant?” he asked, lowering his voice to a purr. 

As innuendoes went it was a weak attempt, particularly from him, and Emma could see that his heart wasn’t in it. She could also see she wouldn’t get anything more out of him today. Which was fine. She could wait. 

“So _you_ think,” she retorted and picked up her plate, carrying it back to the kitchen. She felt his eyes on her back as she went, but when she’d rinsed the plate and put it in the rack to dry she turned to find his attention focused on his book. 

He looked so different here, she thought, taking advantage of the opportunity to study him. It wasn’t just the casual clothes or the halfhearted innuendo—his whole demeanour had changed. Like he’d shed a layer of himself, or maybe a layer that was _not_ himself. Emma knew better than most what it was to wear armour—that solid steel she kept between her heart and those who sought to harm it—and she did not care for the creeping suspicion that she and Killian might have this in common. That he might in fact be not be quite what she’d thought he was.

She didn’t care for it. But she couldn’t ignore it. 

~

They passed the rest of the day in relative peace. Killian continued to read and Emma, after a quick exploration of the cabin revealed there was no television, decided she might as well join him. She spent a long time going through his bookshelves—he had an amazing range of books, both fiction and non, in every genre she could imagine. Including, Emma discovered with a triumphant cry and a pounce, romances. 

“You read romance novels?” she exclaimed, waving the paperback with its illustration of a man and woman, embracing on what appeared to be the deck of a pirate ship, beneath Killian’s nose. “ _You?_ ”

His lip curled in an almost-smile. “Why does that surprise you? You’ve spent nearly an hour perusing my shelves, you surely noticed that I read just about anything.” 

“Sure, but _this?_ ” 

“And why _not_ that?” 

“Well,” Emma hedged, feeling uncomfortably as though her attack had become an ambush, “because it’s dumb.” 

“Oh? Dumb how?” He gave her a polite, attentive look edged with challenge, and she scowled. 

“Dumb as in ridiculous,” she declared. “Cheesy and overblown and unrealistic, and seriously _nobody_ looks like that!” She stabbed the cover with her finger. 

“It’s fantasy, Swan. There are no wizards or dragons or aliens either, and yet books about all of them remain wildly popular. And besides”—he leaned towards her with a smirk and a glint in his eye that made her belly twist and tighten—“those books feature quite a lot of sex, written by women. What better way to learn what a woman likes than to read the fantasies she writes for herself and others like her?” 

“Huh,” said Emma, frowning at the book to distract herself from the flare of heat his words ignited. "I guess—I’ve never thought about it that way before.” 

“That one there is one of my favourites,” Killian informed her. “The chap is quite dashing. Pirate, you know. _Miscreant._ ” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she snorted. “You should give it a try.” 

It was an unmistakable dare, and though she tried to tell herself not to let him goad her in such an obvious way, one she couldn’t resist. 

“I will,” she declared, and took the book back to the window seat, making herself comfortable with the pillows and blanket and beginning to read. 

~

“Do you want some dinner, Swan?” 

“Huh?” Emma jumped at Killian’s voice and looked up at him with a scowl. She’d been in the midst of a high-seas battle, all clashing swords and bursts of cannon fire and the heroine backed into a corner by the rival pirate captain, in danger of kidnap or worse unless she could fight him off with the cutlass she’d only just learned to use. Emma was rooting for her, and extremely displeased by the interruption. “What did you say?” 

“I asked if you’d like some dinner.” Killian’s eyes twinkled with a knowing glint she did not care for. “I’m making some for myself. Just soup, but it’s a good one. You’re welcome to share.” 

“Oh. Um. Yeah, thanks. Do you need help?” 

“No, I’ve got it.” He grinned at her. “You go back to your book.” 

By the time he returned with a large mug emanating delicious-smelling steam and a plate of buttered toast, Emma’s heroine had fought her way free of the rival captain’s clutches and been reunited with her lover—whom she had realised in the terror of the battle she could not live without—and they were making their way back to her home. The pirate was determined to return his lady to her family—for her own good, he said, a pirate’s life was far too dangerous for her—but Emma suspected that before the end of the book the lady would find a way to change his mind. There were still more than a hundred pages left in which to do it. 

Reluctantly she set the book aside and accepted the mug and plate, along with a metal baking tray Killian offered her with a slightly sheepish look. 

“It’s the best I can do for a table,” he said. “You’ve probably noticed this cabin isn’t exactly equipped for two.” 

Emma sat cross-legged with the tray balanced on her knees and managed to eat a spoonful of soup without spilling. It was delicious—spicy but not excessively so, with beans and corn and shredded chicken in a thick tomatoey broth. She hummed as she dug her spoon back in for a second mouthful. 

Killian resumed his place in the armchair—the table next to him was big enough to hold his mug and plate easily, Emma noted—and they munched in silence for several minutes. 

Outside the window the sunlight was just beginning to dwindle into a cool twilight of blue and pastel pink, though the clock on Killian’s oven read 9:53. They must be quite far north, Emma thought, which called to mind another of her many unanswered questions. 

“Where are we?” she asked abruptly. 

Killian carefully swallowed his mouthful of soup and set the mug down before replying. “Canada,” he said. 

“Canada?” Emma stared at him. 

“That’s what I said.” 

“But—I don’t have my passport.” 

“No.” 

“So how did we get over the border?” 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you really want the answer to that, love?” 

“I—no.” Emma sighed. “I guess I don’t.” 

“Wise.” 

He began to eat again but she frowned into her mug, mind churning. “But how will I get back home?” she asked after a moment’s pause. “We are—you are planning to go back, right?” 

“Of course.” 

“So…” she made an sweeping gesture with her hand. “What’s your plan, then? Assuming you have one?” 

“I do.” He spooned up the last of his soup, set his mug on his table and turned to her with a grim set to his jaw. 

“Perhaps it is time we discussed this. All of it, I mean. What you saw and what it means and where I come in.” He met her eyes and his own were intense, full of an empathy that shouldn’t feel so right from him. “If you think you’re ready?” 

Emma shivered as her memories of the night before returned, along with the ache and chill of fear. The quiet cosiness of the cabin and the escape of her book had dispelled them temporarily—and maybe also deliberately, she thought in a flash of comprehension. She’d needed that respite. But now— 

“Yeah,” she said, with a deep breath and a nod. “I think I can be.” 

Killian let out a long breath of his own and sat back in his chair. “Do you know who Robert Gold is?” he asked. 

Emma shrugged. “Kind of? The papers always call him a philanthropist, whatever that means.” 

“It’s meant to mean someone who donates great sums of money to multiple causes. Out of a sense of civic duty in the classic definition of the word, but in the case of Gold it means someone who donates just enough to just the right concerns to give people cause to turn a blind eye to his _other_ financial interests.” 

She frowned. “What other interests?” 

“Art theft, forgery, and money laundering, among others,” he replied grimly. 

“But—I thought all of Pan’s associates got arrested.” 

“They did. Gold didn’t work for Pan.” 

“So who does he work for?”

“No one. Himself.” 

“What this whole time? While Pan was in power?” 

“Pan never completely stomped out other criminal concerns, so long as they didn’t interfere with his own interests,” Killian explained. “Gold’s field was separate enough that the two of them rarely crossed paths, though...” he frowned, almost to himself.

“Though what?” 

“I’m not sure really. It’s nothing I could ever put my finger on but I always had the impression that there was another layer to their relationship, one neither wished to discuss or have made public. At any rate they took pains to keep out of each other’s way. And then Pan went down.” 

“And Gold—did what, exactly?” 

“As of right now? Not much that he wasn’t doing before. But he’s laying the groundwork, building foundations for expansion. I was there when Pan did the same. Hell, I _helped_ him do it. And now Gold is preparing to make a move for everything Pan once had.” He gave her a small smile, ironic with a bitter, razor edge. “You were right you know, Emma, to believe that someone would try to step into the breach when Pan went down. Your only mistake was thinking that someone would be me.” 

Something stabbed at Emma, something that felt uncomfortably like remorse. She tried to shake it off but found she couldn’t—it settled in her chest and twisted there, heavy and sharp. “So, um, Gold has been what, just biding his time all these years?” she asked. “Waiting until Pan was gone so he could take over?” 

“Not precisely.” Killian ran a hand over his chin, scratching at the scruff on it. “He’s been involved in the game for a long time, since before Pan came to this country. But he was content to stay in his lane, as it were. Pan had little interest in high-end crime so Gold could conduct his affairs without any conflict of turf. But now with Pan and his whole organisation gone, Gold saw an opportunity he couldn’t resist.” 

“And from the sounds of it, you knew this would happen.” She gave him a probing look. “Did you?” 

“Aye,” he conceded. “I suspected it might. Which was why I kept my eye on Felix.” 

“On _Felix?_ ” The ache in Emma’s heart throbbed again. 

“Indeed.” 

“But why? He wasn’t anyone, just a—a lowlife—” she broke off with a little choking sob. Felix may not have been anyone important but he’d been a _person_ and now he was _murdered_ and—she jumped as a warm hand covered hers and looked up into Killian’s eyes, so blue and far too full of understanding. 

He sat next to her on the sea chest and eased his arm around her, gently coaxing her head onto his shoulder. Emma held herself stiff for a moment then melted, unable to resist the comfort he was offering. 

“Felix was a lowlife, just as you say,” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice soothing in her ear. “One who wasn’t even on Pan’s payroll, which is why he wasn’t implicated in the RICO case. But he did do the odd job for Pan, in exchange for drugs and some other privileges. He wasn’t a bright lad, and Pan held an odd sort of thrall over him.” He paused, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns on Emma’s shoulder, relaxing her further. “Anyway, Gold believes just as you do, that my role in Pan’s downfall was self-serving. He thinks that I held back records from the police, information on how Pan ran his businesses which I could then use to set myself up as the next kingpin in the city. He wanted Felix, as the only other person with ties to Pan who was still walking free, to obtain those records. Felix came to me and asked for them directly.” 

Emma snorted. “Seriously?” 

“I told you he wasn’t bright. I told _him_ that they don’t exist.” 

“Hmmm,” said Emma. “And do they?” 

“No.” 

“You’re lying.” 

He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?” 

Emma sat up so she could see his face. It wore a dark expression that made her shiver. “I can tell when someone is lying to me,” she said. “It’s a gift, like a—a superpower. And right now it’s telling me that you are lying. Not entirely, but there’s something you’re holding back.” 

“I turned over every scrap of information I had on Pan to the police, and I have not engaged in any new illegal activity since he was arrested,” he said, his voice flat and cool. “That is not a lie.” 

“It’s not the whole truth, either. What aren’t you saying?” 

Killian released her and stood, raking a hand through his hair. “Nothing that’s any of your concern.” 

“How the hell do you expect me to trust you when you lie to me?” Emma snapped, irritated at how keenly she felt the loss of his warmth and support. 

“How do you expect _me_ to trust _you_ when I saved your bloody life and you’re still trying to put me in jail?” he snarled. “It goes both ways, darling. I took a huge risk by moving overtly against Gold, and by bringing you _here_ of all places. The very least you could do in return is stop looking at me like all you can see is the price on my head!” 

“There isn’t a price on your head anymore, you saw to that!” she cried. 

“Yes I did. Which was also a risk. I earned my pardon in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom, and now I’ve put all that in jeopardy because I couldn’t bear to—” He broke off on a hiss, tugging at his hair again. 

“To what?” Emma sneered. “What could _you_ not bear?” 

He turned to face her, angry and sincere and reckless. “To see you dead,” he said bluntly. “I couldn’t bear that, however bloody infuriating you can be.” 

She caught her breath. “But you didn’t know—how could you have known my life was even in danger?” 

“Because I’m the one who brought you into this.”

His voice was quiet, ragged with remorse and utterly truthful, but Emma shook her head. “I was chasing the bounty on Felix, it was nothing to do with—” 

“I wanted to get Felix off the streets,” he interrupted her. “For his own safety. Once I learned what Gold wanted from him and that Felix would never be able to deliver it, I knew it was only a matter of time before Felix’s body turned up in an alley somewhere, dead of a single stab wound to the heart.” 

She caught her breath and he raised an eyebrow, grim and knowing. “Gold’s signature move. I take it that’s what you witnessed?”

She nodded. “Gold—he asked Felix if he had it, and said don’t disappoint me, you won’t like the consequences. Then Felix said he couldn’t get it because ‘Jones said’ but Gold interrupted him, and said ‘don’t talk to me about Killian Jones.’ Then he held up his cane and Felix—he obviously knew what that meant for him.” 

Killian’s mouth was a tight line, a muscle leaping in his jaw. “I’m so bloody sorry, Swan,” he growled. “I just wanted Felix out of Gold’s reach. He wasn’t worth much but I felt responsible for him, the way he was left at such a loss with Pan gone. Many of his failings were not his fault.”

“But why did you need me for that?”

“Don’t forget I’ve seen you in action, love, I know what you’re capable of,” he said with a poor attempt at a smile. “I knew you could infiltrate Gold’s party and that you’d make quick work of Felix once you were there. So I asked Graham to dig up what he could on Felix—I knew there had to be something—and then put you on his trail. The idea was for you to bring him in so the police could hold him until Gold lost interest. That way he’d be safe from Gold in a non-suspicious way that couldn’t be traced back to me.” 

“That’s—actually not a bad plan.” 

“Oh, aye. Except that it was a spectacular failure.” 

“That’s not your fault, Killian—” 

“It _is,_ ” he insisted, clenching his hands into fists. “I should have pointed you in his direction the moment I saw you, but instead I got caught up in—” his mouth twisted. “Well… you know.” 

In sparring with her, Emma thought. In the ridiculous game they’d been playing just twenty-four hours ago, though it felt like years. “Yeah,” she sighed. “I do.” 

“As soon as I saw Felix leave the party I knew what was likely to happen,” continued Killian, pacing up and down the short length of the room. “He didn’t have the records and Gold does not take kindly to being thwarted. _His_ fate was sealed but there was still chance I could save you. I tried to get to you before you left to follow him but I was across the room and the crowd was too thick, I couldn’t move fast enough. So I got my car and got you out of the gallery, then followed my escape plan to bring us here.” 

Emma’s heart was racing again. “How did you know where I’d be?” she asked quietly. 

“Gold always holds meetings in that gallery, particularly ones he thinks will end as that one did. The room is well sealed and noise insulated and the carpet is made of pre-cut squares, like tiles. Easy to pick up and replace with fresh ones if they get stained.” 

“So basically a perfect murder room.” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, like it belonged to someone else. 

His was rough. “Basically.” 

“But—” Emma forced herself to breathe steadily, and to remember that she was safe. “What if—what if I hadn’t been near the door? What if Gold had caught me?” She looked up at Killian. “He almost fucking did.” 

Killian’s jaw was tight again, the muscle flexing in it as he approached her cautiously. “I could only hope I got there in time,” he rasped. “There were far too many things I had to trust to luck. But what other choice was there? Do nothing and you would surely have been killed. Do something and you still may have been, but.. well, I had to try.” He swallowed hard. “I’m just glad that it worked.” 

“Yeah.” Emma shuddered, thinking about how close it had come to not working. She hugged herself, sinking her fingernails into the soft fleece of his sweatshirt. “So what happens now?” she asked. “You said you have a plan?”

“Aye.” Slowly he sat next to her and she let him, let him pull her close again and tuck her head onto his shoulder. She sighed as some of her tension ebbed away and her body relaxed against his. “First we have to contact Graham,” he said. “I sent him a message when I woke up, telling him what I thought you had seen and that I would keep you safe. By now Gold certainly knows who you are and that I was the one who helped you get away. He’ll have people searching for both of us; it’s not safe to go back to the city until he’s neutralised.” 

“Neutralised,” she repeated. “Fuck. What’s _that_ gonna take?” 

“Possibly not as much effort as you think. Gold is slick, but he’s not used to being the focus of attention. He gets away with things because for the right incentives people, the police included, are content to look the other way. It’s all a game for Gold, one he’s been playing for so long he believes he’s untouchable.” Emma shivered and his arm tightened around her. “But with Pan gone he’s gotten arrogant, and arrogant means careless. Graham’s been investigating him for a while and he’s got enough evidence to pursue the case. We just have to sit tight until he’s ready to make an arrest—he wants to be sure everything is airtight first. Which means”—he cleared his throat—“that you are going to need to tell him exactly what you saw. Can you do that, Swan?” 

“I—” Emma took a deep breath, full of Killian's scent and the heat of his skin. His nearness shouldn’t comfort her so much but it _did_ , and right now she would take any comfort she could get. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I _want_ to do it.” 

She felt his grin though she couldn’t see it, felt his cheek flex against the top of her head. “You’re a tough lass,” he said. “I admired that about you from the start.” 

~

Graham answered his phone on the first ring. “Detective Humbert,” he said gruffly.

“Graham.” Emma couldn’t believe how good it felt to hear a familiar voice. 

“Emma!” he cried. “How are you? Are you okay? Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She flexed her fingers around the phone Killian had given her—a satellite phone he’d said, the size and heft of a cell phone circa 1989.

“Where are you?” Graham demanded.

She was in the bedroom, curled up on the bed with the door tightly shut. But that wasn’t what Graham was asking. “Uh, I don’t quite know. Killian said Canada, but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down.” 

“Killian.” Graham spat the name with a venom that surprised her. 

“Yeah,” she said, frowning. “He’s—well, less awful than I thought. He saved my life.” 

“And he hasn’t—” Graham cleared his throat “— _done_ anything to you?” 

“Like what?” 

“Like—tried anything.” 

Emma felt a surge of indignation on Killian’s behalf. “Okay, one, that’s a _hell_ of a thing to say about your friend—” 

“Who said he’s my friend—” 

“And two, no, he’s not laid a finger on me since we got here.” Except to comfort her, but that wasn’t something Graham needed to know about. Nor did he need to know that the change in Killian’s behaviour, the complete disappearance of any innuendo or provocation, left her feeling oddly disgruntled and unsure what to think. She hadn’t wanted it in the first place so she should be _glad_ it was gone, but its absence had changed their dynamic in a way that had her feeling a bit off balance.

“—did _he_ say he’s my friend?” Graham was almost shouting. “Emma?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Graham, it doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “Whether you’re friends with Killian or not, that’s not important. I’m fine, he’s fine, and we both want to go home, so can we talk about how to make that happen?” 

Graham took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice was calm and professional. “Yes we can. Tell me what you witnessed at Gold’s mansion.” 

Emma took a breath of her own, wrapped her arms around her knees and began to speak. 

~

When she hung up the phone she returned to the living room to find Killian leaning against the stone mantel above the fireplace, staring into the flames. He looked up sharply when she entered. “How was it?” he demanded. “Are you all right?” 

She nodded. “A bit bruised, but yeah, I’m okay.” She gave him a faint smile. “I’m okay. I’ll be oka—” 

He hesitated for the briefest moment then strode across the room and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay not to be okay, you know,” he said softly. “If you’re not.” 

“I—” Emma’s voice caught on a sob and she buried her face in his chest. 

“Shhh, love, it’s all right,” he murmured. She felt his hand stroke her hair and the lightest press of his lips on the side of her head. Closing her fist on a handful of his shirt, she breathed in shuddering heaves as her tears continued to fall. 

“I feel like I can’t stop crying,” she whispered. “Why can’t I? I _never_ cry.” 

“Because you’re a human being with a soul,” he replied, with an edge to his voice she hadn’t heard in it before. “You’re not a monster like Gold or—others of his kind.” 

_Or me_ , he was going to say, she realised. He thought he and Gold were the same. 

“You like to think you’re tough, Emma,” Killian continued. “And you are. Tough and brave and bloody fearless. But beneath that armour you wear you have a soft and caring heart and that’s worth more than all the rest of it combined. You must never, ever let your heart grow hard. That’s not toughness, it’s death.” 

She had no idea how to respond to that, or the ache of self-loathing she heard in his voice. So she said nothing, pressing closer to him as his hand moved down her hair in soothing strokes. 

“Cry as much as you need,” he murmured. “Let yourself feel what you’re feeling. It’s the only way to heal.” 

She clung to him, sobbing into his shirt until her tears were spent and she was exhausted, with a pounding ache behind her eyes. When at last she sniffed and straightened up, Killian let her go without hesitation. 

“Better?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” she smiled wryly. “But my head hurts.” 

“I can help with that, at least.” He went to the bathroom and returned a moment later with a bottle of Tylenol, which he handed to her then moved to the kitchen to fill a glass with water. “Take some of those and drink the whole glass,” he instructed. “Then go to bed and try to get some sleep.” 

“Thanks.” Emma turned towards the bedroom then stopped and looked back. He was still standing there, watching her. “Are you—are you coming?” 

He smiled. “Later. You go now.” 

“Okay.” She turned to go again then immediately swivelled back. “And thanks, Killian,” she said. “For everything.” 

His smile widened into the boyish one that made her chest feel tight, and too small to contain the leap of her heart. “You’re welcome, love,” he said. “Sleep well.” 

Emma went to the bedroom and shut the door behind her, leaning back and letting her head fall against it with a soft thunk. “Do not do this, you idiot,” she whispered to herself. “Do not go there. Not again.” 

\--


	3. PART THREE

Emma awoke again to an empty bed, to the indentation of Killian’s head in the pillow next to her and his familiar spicy scent. This time though the light through the windows was the bright pale yellow of early morning and she could hear noises from the other room, the clatter of utensils and the sizzle of cooking food. They were accompanied by a rich aroma of coffee, which Emma followed eagerly to the kitchen where Killian was standing at the stove scrambling some eggs. 

“Morning, Swan,” he said cheerfully. “Coffee?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“How do you take it?” 

“Um, I don’t suppose you have any cinnamon-flavoured coffee creamer?” 

He turned to her with an expression of such genuine horror that she burst out laughing. 

“I absolutely do not,” he declared. “What abomination is that?” 

“You probably don’t want to know. In that case, milk and plenty of sugar, please.” 

As he prepared her a cup she looked around the kitchen, noting that in addition to the scrambled eggs there was a plate of whole wheat toast and a bowl of fruit salad. 

“You really do eat healthy, don’t you?” she observed.

“Well, you know what they say, love. The body is a temple.” He handed her the coffee with a grin and a quirked eyebrow. “And mine certainly deserves to be worshipped.” 

“Sure it does,” she replied, hiding her own grin. “You just keep thinking that. I’ll stick to my cinnamon creamer.” She half expected him to make some remark about her body deserving better or that he’d be happy to worship her if she wasn’t going to, but he didn’t. Instead, he said: 

“There’s plenty of food if you’d like some too. Help yourself.” 

“Oh.” Emma squashed the flare of disappointment, which she shouldn’t even feel. “Um, are you sure?” 

“Of course.” He smiled again and handed her a plate. “Like I said before, have whatever you like. We don’t know how long we’ll be here and I don’t want you to spend weeks feeling like you have to ask me every time you want something to eat. And if I’m cooking it’s no problem to make enough for two.” 

Emma took the plate, ignoring the flutter of excitement low in her belly at the prospect of weeks here alone with Killian, focusing instead on loading up her plate with toast and eggs and after a short debate, a few spoonfuls of fruit. She took her meal over to the window seat and sat down, peering up at the scattered patches of blue sky she could make out through the trees. 

“So what do you do when you’re here?” she asked. 

“Read, mostly,” Killian replied, making himself comfortable in his chair. “Go for walks. Swim.” 

“Swim?” 

“Aye, there’s a little lake not far from here. The water is absolutely freezing but it’s amazingly clear.” He paused, then gave her a cautious smile. “We could go sometime. Er, if you’d like.” 

“Hmm. Maybe.” The flutter intensified, and Emma concentrated on her food. 

“Well, um, just let me know.” Killian toyed with chunk of orange on his plate. “I’m planning to go for a walk after breakfast actually. You’re welcome to come along. I can show you where the lake is, and some other landmarks.” 

That sounded kind of wonderful, she thought. As cosy as the cabin was, she didn’t like the idea of being stuck in it all day. “I’d like that, actually, but I haven’t got any shoes I could hike in,” she pointed out. “Or, you know, clothes.” 

“Oh. Right. Of course. Well you can wear my clothes, but the shoes do present something of a problem.” His brow creased as he thought. “I’m pretty sure I have a pair of sneakers somewhere that are a bit too small for me. With a couple pairs of socks they might do for you. I can dig them out. I mean—only if you want to.” 

“Yeah.” Emma smiled at him. “That sounds great. Thanks.” 

They finished their breakfasts in companionable silence, then Emma went to take a shower and change into the jeans, clean tee and flannel shirt that Killian provided, and two pairs of his thick socks. His shoes were ridiculously big on her but she laced them tightly and with a bit of practice managed to walk well enough, though, as she told him wryly, she now had a fuller appreciation of what being a clown felt like. 

“Good job they’re not red shoes, then, really,” he remarked with a grin. 

They set out into the forest, Killian carrying a rucksack packed with a compass, blanket, and thermos of coffee. Though he’d agreed with her the day before that he wasn’t an outdoorsy type, she couldn’t help noticing how comfortable he seemed. and wondered how much time he spent at the cabin. It wasn’t exactly easy to get to and a man like him could hardly just disappear and have his absence go unnoticed, but then everything was so perfectly designed and equipped to be a snug little haven for him that it couldn’t only be for emergencies. 

It felt like his home, and _she_ felt a bit like an intruder. 

Killian led her through the trees along no path she could see, but soon enough they emerged just above a small, round lake, bright blue and shimmering in the morning sunshine. 

“Oh,” she gasped. “That’s beautiful.”

“Mmm,” he agreed. “Colder than a witch’s tit, as I said, but refreshing. Shall we sit for a while?” He gestured at an outcrop of rock just to their left, with a wide, flat surface like a low table. 

“Ah, sure.” 

She watched as he dug the blanket out of his rucksack and spread it over the rock, then hopped up onto it and sat cross-legged, glad of the insulation between her butt and the cold surface. Killian sat next to her, and after another rummage in the rucksack produced a large enamel mug. 

“What’s this for?” she asked, taking it. 

“Coffee.” He pulled out the thermos and popped it open, filling the mug before she could object. 

“Um.” Emma didn’t want to be ungrateful, but—“I don’t drink it black.” 

“Never fear, Swan,” he smirked, withdrawing another, smaller thermos. “Your abhorrent coffee-related proclivities have been noted. Put some of this in.” 

The small thermos proved to be filled with sweetened milk and “Is that cinnamon!” Emma exclaimed. 

“Aye. I had some cinnamon sticks and I heated one up with the milk. Perhaps not on the level of your coffee creamer, but it should do for now.” 

Emma poured the warm, fragrant milk into her mug and sipped with a happy sigh. “It’s really good,” she said, with a sidelong glance at him. 

He smiled his boyish smile and rubbed at his neck, just below his ear. “I’m glad you like it,” he replied softly. 

They sat in silence for a long while, sipping their coffee and taking in the scenery. It was a comfortable silence, Emma realised, and a companionable one. Silence normally made her jumpy and anxious, but she had never felt that way with Killian, not from the very beginning. She cast another glance at him from the corner of her eye, wondering what he was thinking. His face was calm and unreadable, his eyes on the trees across the lake. 

When the thermoses were empty he re-packed them in his rucksack and they continued on their walk. Emma kept a sharp eye out as they went, trying to spot anything that looked familiar. She felt pretty sure they were heading back towards the cabin but they seemed to be following a different route than the one they had taken away from it. 

Killian confirmed this a moment later. 

“The cabin is over there,” he said, pointing off to their left. “You can just see it through the trees.” 

Emma squinted. “Yeah—yeah, I see it.” 

“And just there”—he pointed directly in front of them—“is a stream that leads down to the lake where we left the motorboat. If you ever need to get back to that lake, follow the stream.” 

Emma gave him a sharp look. “Why would I need to get back to that lake?” 

He turned to her with a solemn expression. “Very few people know about this cabin,” he said, “and all of them are people I trust, people who owe me considerable debts and loyalty. It’s extremely unlikely Gold will ever find us here. But a wise man takes precautions even against unlikely developments. If you ever need to get back to that lake, Emma, follow this stream. Can you remember that?” 

Emma shivered, and not from the brisk forest air. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll remember.” 

Killian sighed and his shoulders relaxed. “Good. Shall we go back?” 

They didn’t speak when they returned to the cabin, busying themselves with unpacking the rucksack and rinsing the thermoses, then making some sandwiches for lunch with the remaining fruit salad. Killian took up his book again and Emma did the same, spending a relaxed few hours discovering how the pirate captain and his love found their happy ending. 

She got a bit emotional over it, to her chagrin, but that was nothing to how she felt when she began reading the next book she picked from Killian’s shelves. This one was a story of love lost and regained, of a boy who went off to war not knowing he was leaving his best friend pregnant after a night they could barely remember, then returned years later scarred and fragile to find her again, along with the son he never knew he had. It made Emma’s heart ache, and she didn’t realise she was crying until Killian appeared at her side with a plate of chicken and salad for her dinner and boundless empathy in his voice. 

“Are you all right, love?” 

She startled at the question and wiped the tears from her cheeks with a sharp, impatient gesture, not looking up. She knew he would be looking at her with that gentle understanding in his eyes, and she wasn’t equipped to deal with that in her current mood. 

“Yeah,” she said, accepting the plate. “I’m fine.” 

They ate in silence, Killian sitting down and taking up his book again, but Emma felt too raw to return to hers though she was desperate to know how the story ended. 

“I really don’t cry very often,” she blurted. “Honestly. Before yesterday I think the last time was—” _Fuck_. 

“Was when?” His voice was calm and undemanding. If she refused to answer he would accept that decision and not try to push. But Emma found herself wanting to answer. She wanted to talk about it, wanted _him_ to know. Maybe it was the intimacy of the cabin or the fact that she would never see him again once this was all over. Or maybe it was because she knew— _knew_ —that he would understand. 

“The day I had my baby,” she replied. “And gave him away.” 

Taking a deep breath, she looked over at him and there it was, the understanding in those blue eyes, understanding and empathy and not a hint of judgement. “That sounds like something worthy of your tears,” he said. 

“I don’t like to talk about it,” she choked, as her eyes brimmed again. “But I still think about it. Every year on his birthday.” 

“It must have been a very difficult decision.” 

She laughed, low and bitter. “It wasn’t, though. It was easy. I didn’t—I didn’t _want_ to give him up but I knew I couldn’t keep him. There was just no way I could take care of him; I was barely eighteen, I’d dropped out of high school, I was in ja—” Her eyes flew to his and he gave her a small smile. 

“You were in jail, for the theft of some rather valuable watches,” he finished. 

She huffed. “Do I want to know how you know that?” 

“Probably not.” 

Emma wiped her cheeks again and took a bite of chicken. She felt better in a way she couldn’t quite explain, her chest less tight and the heart within it less heavy. She thought about Killian digging up information on her as she had on him, and found she didn’t hate the idea. 

“So did you research me, then?” she asked. 

“I did.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “It seemed only fair, as I knew you would do the same.”

“Sure, but I was trying to catch you doing something illegal,” she shot back, throwing the words down like a challenge, daring him to take offence. “What was your excuse?” 

His expression shifted, not into anger but something just as dark, something that made her catch her breath. “I told you, Swan, you intrigue me.” 

Emma’s belly twisted at the deep timbre of his voice. “I—I can’t think why.” 

“Abandoned as a baby, shunted through the foster system until you ran away when you were sixteen, fell in with a rough crowd,” he enumerated, holding her gaze. “You very nearly stumbled down a path that led to more serious crime and far lengthier jail time. But you didn’t. You sorted yourself out, found a career that suits you, became the best at it. You took control of your life, and you did it all on your own. That takes a great deal of courage and determination.” 

“I—never looked at it that way before.” 

“Perhaps you should start.” His voice was still pitched deep but also meltingly soft, his eyes intense. “You’re a remarkable woman, Emma Swan.” 

Emma didn’t reply. She had no idea what to say—his words and the way he spoke them, the way he looked at her made her feel hot and weak inside even as her skin crackled with tense energy. 

Killian closed his book and laid it on the table. She watched as his jaw muscle flexed, and when he leaned back in his chair and met her eyes again his own were conflicted. 

“I knew Neal Cassidy,” he said grimly. “He worked for Pan.” 

“I know who he _worked for_ ,” Emma spat. “Now I do, I mean, I didn’t then. I thought he was like me, a lost kid all alone.” She scowled as she remembered how stupid she’d been, how many glaring red flags she’d ignored in her desperation to believe Neal’s lies. “I thought we could be each other’s _family_ , but it turned out he already had one of those. Just not the sort of family I was looking for. I guess—I guess it makes sense that you would’ve known him.” She hated to think about it though. Hated even hearing Neal’s name from Killian’s mouth. “Did you know that I was the one who put him in jail?” 

“No I didn’t, though that also makes sense.” Killian’s lips twitched. “That must have been satisfying.” 

“Oh it was. Even more than when I nailed the foster father who stuck his hand down my pants then threw me onto the streets when I fought back, and told the state I’d run away.” She smirked. “I bet you didn’t read that in my files.” 

That muscle was leaping in his jaw again, and his eyes were lethal. “I did not,” he growled. “Swan—” 

“Yep. He tried to assault me and nothing happened to him, they wrote me off as a runaway and gave him another foster kid to abuse. But he got arrested eventually, for indecent exposure, and when he skipped bail I took great pleasure in hauling his worthless ass to jail.” 

Killian’s fury was palpable, his fists clenched on the arms of his chair and his jaw like iron. “Bloody bastard got less than he deserved,” he snarled.

“That’s _exactly_ what I thought.” Emma was caught in her emotion, in the fury that always bubbled up when she thought about all the men in her life who’d mistreated her and got away with it, who manipulated and bargained their way out of trouble. “Of course he didn’t actually stay in jail,” she sneered. “His lawyer cut him a deal and he walked away with probation.” Her own fist clenched at the memory. “I hate that so fucking much, that so many people do shitty things and are never punished for them. I _hate_ people who try to escape consequences that they fucking deserve.” 

“Ah.” 

Too late Emma recalled who she was speaking to, and the root of the conflict between them. “Killian, I didn’t mean—” 

“Yes you did.” He smiled with his mouth but his eyes were desolate, aching with emotions she could swear she felt along with him, bitter recrimination and regret. “It’s fine, love, I understand. I—if you’ll excuse me I think I’ll go to bed.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

He nodded. “Good night, Swan.” 

“Good night.” 

She watched as he disappeared into the bathroom, heard the water running through the pipes and the flush of the toilet, then he came out again and went straight into the bedroom without so much as a glance at her, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

Emma picked up her plate and his as well, took them to the sink and slowly washed them, stacked them in the dish rack neatly as she’d seen Killian do. She put the leftover salad in the fridge and wiped down the counters, making sure everything was lined up and tidy the way he liked it. Then she tidied the living room. 

When she’d stalled for as long as she could she went to the bathroom, washed her face and brushed her teeth and changed back into the pajama pants and t-shirt she’d worn the day before. Approaching the bedroom door as quietly as she could she listened for a moment but heard nothing, and hoped that meant Killian was asleep. She pressed her forehead hard against the grain of the wood, trying hard not to think about the pain in his eyes and her own upset at having put it there. She did that all the time, spoke before she thought and hurt people with her words, but she had never felt truly sorry for it until now. If people didn’t like hearing the truth then they shouldn’t do things that made the truth painful to hear—that was Emma’s philosophy and it should apply to Killian too, she thought fiercely. He _was_ a criminal and he _should_ be in jail, and yet the thought of putting him there made her stomach churn. 

Almost as much as it was churning at the thought of going into the bedroom and getting into bed with him. She reminded herself that they’d shared that bed twice already, but this time she would be awake for it, to hear his breathing and feel the warmth of his body and—she shook those thoughts from her head. 

Opening the door as quietly as she could, she crept to the bed, her footfalls barely audible on the floorboards. The room was dark save for the ivory moonlight that filtered through the trees to cast shifting shadow patterns over the bed and Killian’s still form upon it. 

She slid in beside him, trying to move as little as possible as she adjusted her pillows and the blankets around her. He remained still but for the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, slow and even, though she sensed he wasn’t sleeping. 

She rolled over onto her side to face the back he had turned to her, finding him closer even than she’d envisioned. The bed seemed so big when she was alone in it, but with Killian there beside her it shrank to nearly nothing. She could reach out so easily, he was _right there_ , the back of his head inches from her face, his hair so thick and soft… 

Emma flopped onto her back and threw her arm over her eyes. Killian shifted and for a moment she thought he might roll over… but he burrowed deeper into his pillow and then was still again, his breathing determinedly measured. 

_I’m so sorry_ , she thought at him. _I meant it but also I_ didn’t _and—I’m just sorry I hurt you Killian. I never wanted to hurt you_. 

She didn’t realise she’d said the words aloud until he sighed and she felt him speak as much as heard it. 

“It’s all right, Emma. Truly. Go to sleep.” 

Emma rolled onto her side again, her back to his back, and closed her eyes. It was a long time before she slept. 

~

That day became the model for their routine. Killian woke first and had coffee waiting for Emma when she got up. They ate breakfast together then took a long walk, returning for lunch and an afternoon spent reading, then dinner and conversation—carefully neutral conversation that deliberately avoided anything too personal or any reference to their jobs or their pasts or how they’d met. Despite this, Emma soon realised that those discussions were opening her eyes to the truth of Killian, the complex and fascinating man that lay beneath what she had come to recognise as his own brand of armour, as thick and impenetrable as her own. 

On the fifth day they went outside at twilight and built a bonfire in the fire pit behind the cabin, roasting potatoes and eggs in the ashes, and she actually teased him about the lack of s’mores, laughing until she cried at his exaggerated horror as she described toasting marshmallows and squishing them between layers of chocolate and graham cracker. When they went to bed that night she feared the tension would suffocate her, lying there with his scent in her nose and her fingertips barely brushing against a fold in his shirt, not a touch he could feel but one that squeezed the air from her lungs and made her ache with the inadequacy of it. 

On the sixth day they went swimming. 

They walked to the lake, towels packed in Killian’s rucksack, he with swim trunks on under his clothes and she wearing another of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxer briefs she was trying hard not to think about. 

She had been trying hard not to think about a lot of things relating to Killian lately, like that armour he wore so well she’d entirely failed to spot it at first. To be fair to herself, his act was good. _Really_ good. So good she’d been taken in completely, her superpower rendered useless by her visceral outrage at his taunting and how thoroughly she’d despised him. He’d known exactly what buttons to push to make her so angry she wouldn’t think to look deeper, or to consider that maybe he had to behave as he did to have any hope of surviving among the dangerous people he worked with. 

Once they’d arrived at the cabin—or no, before that even. In the car with the handkerchief, before they’d even begun their journey here he’d dropped the act so completely that now she could barely remember it, could hardly call up any of the hot fury and bitter loathing she’d felt for him for the best part of a year. After less than a week in his company—his _true_ company—it had gone up like smoke with no trace left behind and what remained…

That was another thing Emma had been trying hard not to think about. 

Killian led her down to the shore of the lake where he spread their towels down on the sandy grass and shot her a grin as he began to unbutton his shirt. It wasn’t a suggestive grin, though, thought Emma with a surge of frustration she wished she didn’t feel. It was a nice, friendly grin, exactly the sort of grin he’d been grinning, when he chose to grin, since their arrival. She never would have thought she’d miss his innuendoes but damn it she _did_. She missed the challenge of them and the excuse they gave her to snap back and relieve her feelings. The way sparring with him made her blood race. 

Not that she needed help to get her blood racing, she reflected with an internal groan as Killian began to strip down to his trunks. Just being near him was excruciating enough, with his face and his eyes and his chest that was never freaking covered and the way he always smelled so damned delicious and—Emma gave herself a mental shake and concentrated on removing her own outer layers, pointedly ignoring the expanse of Killian’s bare back she could just see from the corner of her eye, the muscles in his shoulders and his legs— “ _Damn it,”_ she hissed under her breath as her fingers fumbled on a button. 

It was the height of summer but their altitude and the heavy tree cover and the always-cold lake water put a nip in the air, and Emma shivered a bit when she stepped out of Killian’s jeans and shed his flannel shirt. 

“Better get used to it,” he remarked. “The water’s colder.” 

Emma eyed it warily. “Are you sure this is okay?” 

“Absolutely. It’s bracing.” 

“That sounds like something people say when they don’t want to say ‘you’re going to hate it,’” she retorted. “Next you’ll be telling me it builds character.” 

He laughed, a deep, rolling sound that echoed over the water. “That it does,” he confirmed. “Best jump in all at once and get it over with. None of that ‘dipping a toe in’ nonsense.” He reached out, eyebrow quirked in challenge. “Ready?” 

Emma hesitated only a moment before taking his hand, suppressing another shiver at the warmth of it, the slight roughness of his palm. It would feel so good stroking her bare skin, up her inner thigh until his fingers could slip between— _no. Fuck._ _Damn_ _it_. She resisted the urge to smack herself in the forehead. Maybe a dip in a freezing lake was exactly what she needed. 

“Let’s do this,” she said. 

They took off at a run and plunged together into the water, Emma shrieking at the shock of cold but not stopping, letting Killian urge her along until the water was waist high and then diving under alongside him. She’d never felt anything like it, the cold so intense it sucked the air from her lungs, numbed her skin and the tips of her fingers and toes, and when she surfaced the cool air felt beautifully warm by contrast. 

“Oh my God!” she gasped, shaking the water from her face and hair. “That was—” 

Her eyes found Killian watching her with an expectant grin, water dripping down his head and making rivulets though the thick hair on his chest. She wanted to follow them with her fingertips and with her tongue and—

“It was what?” he encouraged. 

“Bracing,” she finished. “You were right. I don’t think I’ve ever been so fucking braced.” 

He laughed again. “You’ll get used to it, and swimming will warm you up. Get your breath back and then—” he leaned closer, eyebrow quirked “—we race.” 

They swam for the rest of the morning, racing to the centre of the lake and back, laughing and splashing each other and generally behaving like idiot children. Emma felt lighter and more carefree than she had for ages and also twisted up near to breaking in frustration and the stupid fucking _longing_ she felt watching water droplets trail down the neck she wanted to lick, or drip from the hair she itched to feel between her fingers. How much more fun their morning in the lake would have been if she could have touched him as she wanted, she thought. If he would just touch _her._

He was so careful not to. No accidental brushes of their fingers when he handed her a mug or a plate, no rolling over to be closer to her in bed. He might offer her his hand as he had earlier or to help her over a tricky patch of ground on their walks, but he always gave her the choice not to take it and he never, ever pushed. 

It was almost enough to make her think that his come-ons from their early acquaintance had just been part of his act. But she knew his tells as well as he did hers—the tension in his shoulders and his jaw, the catch in his breath when she got too near him, and the way he stayed firmly on his side of the bed with his back to her, all night and every night. The heated look she’d caught on his face more than once that morning at the sight of her in wet and clinging clothing and how carefully he’d kept his distance while they swam together. Depriving her, Emma thought crossly, of the chance to let her hands glide over his wet skin and watch his eyes turn dark and hot and his lips—

“You ready, Swan?” 

She jumped, looking up to see him dressed and relatively dry, smiling his friendly smile. “Um, yeah,” she replied. “Just about.” 

She finished buttoning her shirt and shook out her towel, folded it up and handed it to Killian. He packed it into the rucksack which he then slung over his shoulder and side by side they headed back to the cabin. 

When they got there Killian tossed their swimming clothes and towels in the washing machine and made them some lunch. They ate in their accustomed places, she curled on the window seat and he in his chair, each with a book. Emma’s was another romance—she would never admit it, but she was hooked on them now. They were surprisingly fascinating and Killian had been right about the sex—but that afternoon it couldn’t hold her attention. She kept glancing over at Killian and losing her train of thought, distracted by his fingers toying absently with his hair as he read, and how she could always tell when he was at an exciting part in his book because he would bite his lip and hold his breath, releasing it in a slow exhale when the suspense had passed. The hair peeking out from behind the open buttons on his shirt made her think of his bare chest that morning and how much she wanted to card her fingers through it, feel his hands on her and his mouth and his tongue, and—

“I don’t find you repugnant,” she blurted, and immediately wanted to fall into a hole and die. 

“Um,” he looked up from his book with a little half-smile, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Thanks?” 

“No, it’s just—before,” she stuttered, cheeks blazing bright pink. “The—the first night. You said you weren’t interested in pursuing women who find you repugnant. But I—don’t. I mean maybe once, but not anymore.”

His gaze sharpened with something that made her belly twist—the same fierce longing that tormented her. He closed his book and set it on the table.

“Swan,” he said slowly, in a voice that sounded choked. “What are you saying?” 

“I—” She swallowed through her dry throat. 

Killian stood from his chair and moved towards her, slowly but with that lithe grace that hinted at his ability to move much faster. _God_ , she wanted to know how he could move. He stopped in front of her and held her gaze, his eyes intense. 

“Are you saying that you _want_ me to pursue you?” 

She gulped. “Um—” 

“Because Emma, if that’s what you want you have only to say the word.” 

Emma’s heart was pounding and her breath short and fast. She could feel the heat of his body and the tingle of reaction in her own, and she wanted so _badly_ to touch him. Wanted him to touch her, with his rough hands and his clever mouth—and from the heat in his eyes he wanted exactly the same, just as much. Yet he didn’t move and in a flash of understanding she realised that he wouldn’t, not ever—not unless she asked him to. He would never do anything she didn’t want, however much _he_ might want it, and knowing that made Emma feel safer than she ever had in her life. Safe enough to let herself be soft, to smile at him with simple desire and simpler trust. 

“That’s what I want,” she said softly. “I want you.” 

The words had barely left her mouth when he was pulling her to her feet and into his arms, his fingers stroking across her cheek and sliding into her hair. 

“Do you mean it?” he demanded, his voice a rough whisper. “Truly?” 

“ _Yes._ Yes I—” she said fiercely, trailing into a throaty moan when he kissed her. 

The kiss was rough at first, desperate, demanding lips and tongues and teeth, her fingernails scoring his shoulders and his arm like iron around her waist, their harsh breaths sounding loud in the quiet cabin. But then he pressed her back against the wall and cupped her cheek in his palm, stroking her chin with his thumb as he slowed the kiss and gentled it, deepened it until she was sighing and melting against him, her hands fisted in his shirt. 

She tugged the shirt from his jeans and fumbled with it, cursing all its buttons and wondering how mad he’d be if she just tore it off him when his hand slipped beneath her t-shirt to cup her breast and he gave a pained, strangled groan. Emma broke their kiss and frowned up at him, her fingers still working at his buttons. 

“What is it?” she asked. “Are you okay? Is this o—” 

“Yes! God, yes, its just that”—he stroked his thumb across her nipple, groaning again when she whimpered—“you’ve been wearing my t-shirts with no bra and it’s—it’s been rather distracting is all.” 

She felt flushed at the idea of him noticing that and thinking about it, thinking about _her_ and _them_ and _this_ , just as she’d been thinking of him. She finished unbuttoning his shirt and pushed it down his shoulders and when he pulled it off and tossed it aside she did the same with her t-shirt. 

“Is that better?” she purred. 

He pounced on her with a hiss of breath through his teeth, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her up so he could reach her nipples with his mouth. “Much better,” he growled against her pebbled skin. She laughed over a moan and sank her fingers into his hair, holding his head against her breast and wrapping her legs around his waist as he stumbled through the bedroom door and tumbled them onto the bed. 

She purred as she reached for his chest, raking through the hair on it with her fingernails while he tugged his jeans off her, groaning when he found her bare beneath them. He sank to his knees next to the bed and draped her legs over his shoulders, kissing her knee and then a slow trail up one thigh as his hand caressed the other, ignoring her strangled pleas and the fingers grasping at his hair as he nuzzled his nose through her curls. She clawed at his head and dug her heels into his back and he looked up at her with an absolutely wicked grin before finally, _finally_ gripping her thighs hard and burying his face between them. 

She moaned and arched her back as he licked into her, clenched her legs around his head to hold him in place though he seemed in no hurry to go anywhere—humming deep in his throat as his tongue explored her slowly, thoroughly, as though there was nothing he savoured more in the world than the taste of her cunt, and Emma realised that she had never felt more beautiful than she did right there, in that moment. 

He worked her up so high and held her so close to the edge that by the time he pressed the tip of his tongue against her clit that was all she needed, crying out as her fingers clutched at the blankets and her hips thrust up helplessly against his face. He licked her until she quieted, until she lay boneless and spent, then trailed kisses up her body, pressing a final one to her jaw before collapsing against her, his face in her hair. 

“That was better than I imagined,” he panted. “And believe me when I tell you I imagined it a _lot_.” 

“You did?” 

He chuckled. “Oh, Swan. If you knew…” 

She trailed her fingertips down his side to hook beneath the waistband of his jeans. “Why don’t you tell me,” she purred. “Or better yet, show me.” 

“Well,” he growled, pressing a sucking kiss into the curve between her neck and shoulder then trailing down to nip at her collarbone. “I confess the majority of my fantasies involve fucking you in various locations and many, many positions, some of which I’ll be honest are probably physically impossible.” 

She giggled as his mouth continued its path down her chest, his tongue swirling around one nipple as his fingers toyed with the other. “Like what?” 

“Bent over the kitchen counter,” he murmured. “And the window seat and the arm of my chair. Wrapped around me in the bathtub, up against a tree, on the rock by the lake, _in_ the lake. You sitting on the porch railing with your legs around my waist, or spread out on the ground with firelight on your skin as I make you come again and again and again…” 

“And what about here?” she asked. “In the bed?” 

He looked up at her, his face stark and earnest. “Every night, love. Every bloody night I’ve wanted to roll over and pull you close, kiss you until you were soft and aching and dripping wet, then strip your gorgeous body bare and make—make you feel good.” 

“Mmmm.” His words sent heat licking through her veins, left her as aching and wet as he could hope for. “You’ve done that already.” 

“Would you mind terribly if I did it again?” 

His hand stroked down her belly and she let her knees fall apart as his fingers dipped inside her, her own hands scrabbling with the button and zipper on his jeans. She shoved them down and closed her fist around his cock, pumping it slowly as he groaned. 

“Emma, I don’t—I don’t have anything—” 

“It’s okay, I’m on birth control.” 

She shifted beneath him, lining up their hips to bring the tip of him to her entrance and with a strangled moan he pushed inside, shuddering as she rose up to meet him, taking him deep. “Bloody hell,” he gasped, “you feel so good.” 

Emma’s head was spinning, her blood hot in her veins and deafening in her ears. She lifted her knees, digging her heels into his ass. “Killian…” she pleaded. 

“Aye.” He grasped her thigh, fingers sinking into her skin as he began to move, hard and steady and so deep, the angle delicious, his chest hair abrading her nipples and his eyes dark as they gazed into hers. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him down to kiss him, sloppy and desperate and so good, all of it so damned good—her tongue in his mouth and his cock in her cunt and the pressure building low in her belly until he tore his mouth from hers and moaned “I’m so close, Emma, please love—” and then she clenched tight around him and they came together. 

~

Afterwards they lay wrapped tightly around each other long past the time when their breathing had slowed and their heart rates calmed, neither wanting to move. Emma wished they could stay like that forever, enjoying the simple pleasure of their bodies pressed close and their hands free to roam... but try as she might she couldn’t stop her brain from working or hold back the emotion rising up in her chest, such a muddled mess of feelings that she wasn’t even sure what some of them were, only that they were all for Killian and not all were good. 

“What happened to you?” she asked, wincing even as she spoke the words. 

“What do you mean?” His voice was still heavy and sated and she hated herself for ruining this moment, but she couldn’t feel the way she was starting to feel about him, couldn’t _let_ herself feel it, unless she knew. 

“How did you get into—I mean—how did you, um, start doing—well—” 

She felt the moment he understood, felt his muscles tense and when he spoke again his voice was hard. “How did I become the criminal I am?” 

Emma wished she didn’t feel so much like crying. “You know that’s not how I meant it, Killian.” 

“Do I?” He sighed and rolled away, leaving her feeling cold and bereft. “But I suppose it’s a reasonable question for you to ask, given the circumstances.” 

The hurt was audible in his voice and yet still he understood. She swallowed hard. “Well, I’m asking.” 

He sighed again and ran a hand over his face. “I’m not sure this is a bedroom conversation, love. What do you say to a midnight snack?” 

“It’s like eight o’clock.” 

“Dinner, then. Let me make you dinner and I’ll tell you everything you wish to know.” 

~

“I told you before, if you remember, that I was in the navy.” 

“I remember.” 

They were sitting on the floor with their backs against the window seat, eating cold roast potatoes and chicken salad. Emma wore a t-shirt with a blanket tucked around her bare legs and Killian was in his pajama pants and nothing more. 

“When I joined up I was sixteen,” he continued. 

“So young!” 

“The youngest they allowed. There weren’t many career options available where I come from. The navy was one of the few that didn’t involve petty crime and drugs, or higher marks in school than I was able to achieve.” 

She stared at him, but he didn’t appear to be joking. “Really?” 

“What about that surprises you?” 

“Well, it’s just—you’re always reading and you know a lot of annoyingly big words. How did you not do well in school?” 

He shrugged. “A lot of factors contributed. My mother was ill for a long time and when she died my father—he didn’t take it well. Let’s just say that my home life wasn’t exactly conducive to studying. The navy was an escape, a way out of that narrow life and an opportunity to see the world. And also where my brother went.” 

That definitely surprised her. “You have a brother?” 

“Had.” 

“Oh.” _Fuck._ “I’m sorry.” 

“Aye, me too.” He smiled, faint but reassuring. “It was a long time ago, love.” 

_That doesn’t mean you’re over it_ , Emma thought. 

“As I was saying, I joined the navy as soon as I possibly could and, as it so happened, at the same time as Graham.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Which of course you have already deduced. He’d also had a difficult childhood and as you said we bonded. We were assigned to the same ship, the one where my brother was by that time a lieutenant. Graham and I were ratings—grunts, basically—but Liam came to visit us regularly and told us all about life among the officers. Trying to motivate me, you see, to work my way up to that as he had, and I almost did. For the next three years I put everything I had into my job, until finally I earned a place on the officer training course. And then one day my brother was dead.” 

“What?” Emma’s eyebrows snapped into a frown. “Just like that?” 

“Just like that.” 

“But how?” 

“That’s what I wanted to know. The navy told me nothing, only that he had been involved in a dangerous mission and he hadn’t survived. But I knew there was more to it than that.” 

“What made you think that?” 

“Our captain, a man named Silver—” 

“Whoa, wait, hold up.” Emma held out her hands. “Captain _Silver?_ ”

“Aye, I know,” Killian agreed with a smirk. “Nominative determinism.” 

“Nomina-what-what?” 

“Nominative determinism,” he repeated. “It’s the idea that people are drawn to professions that are represented or somehow symbolised by their names.” 

“Ah.” She nodded. “Like my dentist.” 

“What’s your dentist’s name?” 

“Dr Whiting.” 

He laughed. “A fine example. Anyway, Silver was our captain’s name and he did not appreciate pirate jokes or references to _Treasure Island_. But even aside from his sad lack of any sense of humour he had always struck me as a man not to be trusted, and after Liam’s death that feeling intensified. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that he knew what had really happened to my brother, and that more than that he was responsible for it.” Killian shook his head, his expression haunted. “Graham told me not to be a fool, that I needed to let it go, but I _couldn’t_. Liam was all I had left of my family, and I needed to know why he had died.” 

“So what did you do?” Emma whispered, her heart aching for him. 

“I broke into the captain’s quarters and searched his documents.” The corner of his mouth quirked wryly. “My very first criminal act. I found what I was looking for easily; Silver was such an arrogant bastard he barely even bothered to hide it.” 

“What did you find?” 

“Evidence that this so-called ‘dangerous mission’ Liam had died on was actually a smuggling run, that Silver had been using his position and his ship to run drugs and other cargo for a client he called Pan.” 

Emma gasped, though she wasn’t really surprised. “ _Our_ Pan?” 

“Aye. As I later discovered.” 

“Later?” 

“Silver caught me in his quarters and as you might expect he was furious. He had me thrown in the brig and made sure that I carried away no evidence of his wrongdoing. He then saw to it that I was dishonourably discharged from the navy. I tried to fight back, tried to get someone to listen to what I knew about Silver, but no one would believe the word of a disgraced rating over that of a decorated captain, and so with no family and no career and no legal means to avenge my brother I took the only path that remained.” 

Sadness twisted into a tight knot in Emma’s chest. “You went to work for Pan,” she said flatly. 

Killian nodded. “I did. It was clear that the true responsibility for my brother’s death lay with him; Silver was just a means to his ends. I managed to ingratiate myself into his organisation—it was just getting started then—and when he moved from England to the USA he took me with him. Graham had already moved here, and though he and I weren’t in touch anymore I kept tabs on him and so I knew he’d become a cop, and then a detective. When he started working for the organised crime unit I saw my opportunity and approached him with a proposal. I would lever my position to get him the information he needed to take down Pan and everyone associated with him, in exchange for no charges against me and everything they already had wiped clean.” He looked at her, for the first time since he began speaking about his time with Pan. “But of course that part you already knew.” 

“But—” Emma shook her head, her mind whirling. “You were Pan’s most trusted associate. His right hand. For ten years.” 

“Aye.” 

“And the whole time you were working against him?” 

“No, love,” said Killian gently. “Don’t try to make me into something heroic. I did terrible things, things that hurt people. At first because I had to, but later—” He shook his head. “That life, it changes you. And whatever my underlying motivations for getting involved in it may have been, the fact is that I lived it, and though my ultimate goal was to bring Pan down I still participated as fully in his rise as in his fall.” 

“You had to,” Emma insisted. “If you hadn’t, you’d never have gotten so close to Pan.” 

“That is true, but also I saw no reason not to. I was already compromised, with no chance of ever living a truly respectable life so I thought why the fuck not? Why shouldn’t I make what profits I could for myself? Everyone else was just out for themselves, why shouldn’t I be too?” He clenched his fist against his knee, his voice thick with disgust. “In trying to avenge my brother I turned myself into someone he would have _hated_ ,” he spat, “but by the time I truly realised that there was no going back. So I went forward instead, as hard as I could.”

Emma placed her hand over his fist, wishing she had a way to soothe him. “But all that is over,” she said softly. “You have legitimate businesses now. I know because I combed through all of them, trying my best to find something to hang on you and I couldn’t. You’re clean, so why—” She broke off as something flitted across his face, just a twitch of emotion, but enough. 

“You’re not clean, are you?” she exclaimed, jerking away from him. He sat motionless, save for the tiniest twitch of his fingers as though to chase her hand. “You’re still doing something illegal. What is it?” 

He didn’t look at her. “As I told you before, it’s none of your concern.” 

“But why?” she cried on a sudden surge of frustrated anger. “ _Why,_ when you don’t have to?” 

“Stop it, Swan.” 

“But—” 

“No!” He pushed up from the floor and began to pace, tugging at his hair. “You’re trying to make me out to be someone I’m not. I am exactly who and what you thought I was on the night we first met. That is who I am.” 

“But it’s not who you have to be! Killian, I’m not some silly girl who believes in romantic daydreams, and I’m not trying to whitewash you just because we’ve had sex. But you are _not_ the person I thought you were when we met, not even close. No matter what you’ve done. And you do not have to be what you were.” 

“I can’t just _change_ —” 

“I’m not suggesting that. You just have to be yourself. This version of you, the one who saved my life at huge risk to his own and brought me here to the one place he feels truly comfortable.” Emma’s voice broke. “ The man who lives in this cabin deserves respect, Killian. He deserves to live in a way he can feel proud of.” 

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and shook his head. “Emma, please,” he whispered, “don’t. Don’t do this. I can’t—I’m not who you think and I can’t be what you nee—” He broke off, staring at her with such aching regret that she could feel it, sinking into her chest and breaking her heart. Then he turned away. “I’m going to bed.” 

~

Emma sat for a long time after the door had shut behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs and her chin on her knees, trying to sort through her feelings. 

She should be furious. That was the thought she kept coming back to. She should be furious with Killian and the fact that he was still breaking the law despite the second chance he’d been given. He had shown himself to be the kind of person she hated most in the world—one who did harm to others and faced no consequences for it. He should be in jail for the things he’d done, things he had all but admitted he was still doing, but he wasn’t, and he was smart enough to ensure that he never would be. She should hate him. It was clear he expected her to. 

Instead she went into the bedroom and crawled into bed beside him, snuggling against his back and wrapping him tight in her arms. He drew in his breath sharply and his muscles tensed beneath her fingers. 

“What are you doing?” he asked warily as she nuzzled his neck. “Emma—” 

“Shhh.” 

She kissed a trail over his shoulder and down his arm, slipping beneath it to kiss back up his chest, encouraged when his hand stroked down her side and clenched around her hip. She kissed his jaw then cupped it in her hand and kissed his lips, pressing closer when he didn’t respond, until with a groan he opened his mouth under hers. His arms closed around her, his hand sliding up her back and into her hair as he licked deep into her mouth, kissing her like he couldn’t get enough, like he could kiss her for the rest of his days and it would still never be anywhere near enough. 

He rolled her onto her back and she went gladly, humming in approval as he nestled between her legs, rolling his hips against her so she could feel his hardening erection. She spread her legs wider and he growled deep in his throat, pulling back to stare at her with eyes dazed with lust and wonder. 

“Emma—” he whispered, but she shook her head. 

“No. Please, I just—” She wanted to give him more than sex but words were hard for her and her feelings still so confused. “I need this,” she whispered, silently begging him to understand. “ _We_ need this.” 

He stared at her for a long moment then nodded. “Aye, love. As you wish.” 

They removed their clothes quickly then came back together, skin on skin this time and with no hesitation. He kissed her lips and her neck and her breasts, down her belly and over her mound where he kissed deep, licking her to within a whisper of completion then pulling back to hook her leg around his waist and thrust deep inside her. 

She was near to sobbing, clutching at the bedsheets and at him, rocking up to meet him and begging brokenly for _more_ and _harder_ and _oh fuck yes just there, like that_ until she came with a hoarse cry and he buried his face in her neck, trembling in her arms as he followed. 

They held each other close for a long moment that still felt far too short and then he wordlessly pulled away, going into the bathroom and returning with a damp cloth to clean them both up. She took care of herself and then of him, then took the cloth back to the bathroom where she peed and washed her hands, then stared hard at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, waiting for the regret that she should surely already be feeling. 

It didn’t come. 

When she returned to the bedroom Killian was beneath the blankets again. He lifted them for her in a wordless offer that she accepted gratefully, snuggling into his arms and sighing against his shoulder. 

He looked down at her and their eyes met, silently communicating what they couldn’t speak. Emma’s heart ached but Killian smiled, a sad smile but resolute. 

“Go to sleep, love,” he said. 

She nodded, snuggling closer, closed her eyes and quickly fell asleep. 

~

She was awoken by the shrill ringing of a telephone, and by Killian shifting, reaching over her to open a drawer in her bedside table and withdraw the satellite phone. 

“Hello,” he said, his voice rough. “Yes, you bloody did wake me, it’s—oh. Later than I thought… Aye, well I trust you have news to make it worth my while… Ah… Hmm… I see… Yes, thank you, I’ll tell her.” 

He hung up the phone and looked at Emma, his eyes unreadable. “That was Graham. They’ve arrested Gold. It’s time for us to go home.” 

–


	4. PART FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone reading this story! I’ve been blown away by your amazing and insightful comments, and so touched. You are all thoroughly brilliant and I want to hug you. Contact-free internet hugs for all!

It didn’t take long to prepare for their departure. Neither of them had come with any luggage; Killian simply packed his tuxedo and her dress and shoes into a large plastic bag and tossed it into the back of the Jeep. They had a quick breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, quickly tidied the rest of the cottage and then were ready to go. 

Emma took a last look around as Killian reset the security system, trying to fix the little space in her memory. A heavy ache of sadness sat in her chest knowing that she would never see this place again, and Killian… she had no idea what might happen between them when they got back. What she even wanted to happen. 

The drive down to the lake was a silent one. Emma noticed that the path they took down the mountain was straighter than the one that had brought them up it, keeping mostly parallel to the meandering line described by the creek he’d shown her, the one she was to follow if she ever needed to find the lake again. 

The motorboat was precisely where they’d left it. Killian turned off the Jeep and tucked the keys beneath the visor, then fetched the jackets and life vests from the back as Emma grabbed the plastic bag with their clothes. She tossed it into the boat before putting on her jacket and vest and stepping aboard, with no need for Killian’s hand this time. Moments later they were underway, rounding the curve of the lake and heading back to the river that would lead them to the larger lake and the boat that had carried them to it, the one Killian claimed belonged to one of his employees. 

It too was right where they’d left it. Emma frowned as she removed her vest and jacket, handing them to Killian who boarded the larger boat with them tucked beneath his arm and stowed them in a compartment beneath the seating on the deck. 

“Don’t you worry, leaving things like this?” she asked. “A yacht, just sitting there, and the keys left inside the Jeep?” 

“Hardly anyone lives out here,” he replied, turning another key to start the boat’s engine. “And those who do keep to themselves. It’s why I chose this place.” 

Emma stayed on the deck of the boat as it purred down the skinny lake—which she soon realised was not a lake at all but a long and winding inlet that opened out into the sea. Land masses crowded the horizon, some clearly islands and others possibly part of the mainland split up by more inlets. Killian steered them gradually to their left, maintaining a more or less straight course in that direction until slowly the islands became less plentiful and a city began to resolve in a blue-grey haze before them. 

“You’d better get below,” Killian told her. “And stay quiet.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Remember that passport you don’t have?” 

“Oh.” 

She went below and curled up again in the bunk where she’d slept the night of their escape, but no sleep claimed her this time. Voices filtered down from above, muffled but recognisable as Killian’s and another that sounded like a woman. Their conversation was short and soon the boat was moving again. Emma waited another twenty minutes before venturing back onto the deck. 

“Aye, love, it’s clear,” Killian said with a smile when she poked her head through the small door. “We’re back in American waters.” 

“So,” she said, resuming her position on one of the padded benches, “you basically smuggled me into Canada,” 

“Basically.” 

He seemed disinclined to elaborate, tension creeping visibly into his posture as they drew nearer to the city. Soon Emma began to recognise the skyline and about twenty minutes later they arrived back at the marina. 

Killian brought the boat into the mooring they’d taken it from and tossed the lines to a short, round man with a dark beard and an anxious disposition who appeared to be waiting for them. 

“Everything all right, Mr Jones?” he asked. 

“No problems, Smee,” Killian replied. “Thank you for the loan of her.” 

“Anytime, sir.” 

The man nodded to Emma as she debarked and gave her a nervous smile. She smiled back, as warmly as she could manage, then followed Killian across the lot to where his car was parked—another thing just as they’d left it, but with one addition. Graham was leaning against the hood with his arms crossed and his badge prominent, watching them approach with a hard expression. 

He and Killian shook hands, the kind of handshake men exchange when they’d prefer to exchange fists to the face, and then Graham turned to Emma. His eyes raked over her, taking in every detail, leaving her with the uncomfortable sensation that he could see everything she’d done over the past few days—that she had slept with Killian and how her feelings towards him had changed. It made her angry; it wasn’t Graham’s business who she fucked or how she felt about them, and she returned his appraisal with a cool stare. 

“Are you all right?” he asked her. 

“Fine,” she snapped. “Never better.” 

Graham shot Killian another dark look. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ve got a cruiser waiting to take us to the station.” 

“I’d prefer to drive myself, mate, if that’s all right,” Killian replied. 

“If you must,” said Graham. “But Emma comes with me.” 

“I’m going with Killian,” said Emma firmly. “And I’m stopping by my place first, to get a change of clothes. 

Graham’s eyes flitted from her to Killian and back again, his jaw clenching, and she wondered if he would pull rank. Finally he gave a short nod. “Fine. Be at the station in an hour.” 

He turned on his heel and headed for his cruiser, squealing out of the parking lot a minute later in a way that felt deliberate. Killian didn’t look at her as he got into his car and so she simply got in herself, hugging the plastic bag with their clothes tightly to her chest. 

Killian knew where she lived. Of course he did, thought Emma, just as she knew where he lived. He went straight to her apartment, parking in her usual space and wordlessly following her inside, where she retrieved her dress and shoes from the plastic bag and held it out to him. 

“Sit wherever,” she said. “I’ll just change quickly and be right back.” 

He nodded, taking the bag, and she retreated to her bedroom where she shed his clothes and replaced them with her own. As glad as she was to put on actual underwear and clothes that fit—and she was very, very glad for it—the ache in her chest throbbed again as she folded Killian’s jeans and t-shirt and rolled up his socks. She ran a brush through her hair and pulled it into a ponytail, and when she opened her closet to fetch her jacket she froze. 

Killian’s jacket was there beside it, the one he’d put around her shoulders the first night they met. The one she’d intentionally kept to fuel her anger and keep her determination to see justice done to him fresh and hot, and now—

Now it made her want to cry. 

Slowly she removed it from the hanger and held it to her cheek. It smelled like him, that warm, spicy scent that was so familiar now. Emma buried her face in it, breathing deeply and fighting back her tears. Then she placed it gently atop the pile of his clothes and put on her red leather. 

When she returned to her living room Killian was still standing where she’d left him, staring out the window with an expression she couldn’t read. He smiled when he saw her, a smile that started bright and quickly dimmed, one that seemed involuntary. 

“Well,” he said, waving his hand at her outfit. “That’s better, isn’t it?” 

“Much,” she replied, smiling back. “Um, here’s your clothes.” 

“Thanks.” He put them in the bag with his tuxedo. 

“And, uh, I should probably give this back too.” She held out his jacket. 

“Ah.” Killian stared at it, emotion flaring in his eyes but quickly quenched. “Er, yes, thanks.” He took the jacket, not looking at her. 

“Killian—” 

“We should probably get going. I wouldn’t want to face Graham’s wrath if we’re late.” 

“Yeah. But can we, um… can we just...” 

“What?” 

_Talk,_ she wanted to say. _Fix this,_ whatever _this_ was that had been so fragile last night and felt shattered now. But she knew there wasn’t time and Killian’s face was shuttered again, carefully concealing all traces of the man she already missed. 

She put her hand on his arm and he caught his breath. “Emma,” he whispered, “I—”

She stepped closer and he swayed towards her, reaching up to stroke her cheek with trembling fingers that curled around the back of her head as she tilted it up. 

“I—” he tried again, then his lips were on hers, his arms closing tight around her. Emma whimpered and stood on her toes, pressing as close to him as she could get, her own arms twined around his neck and clinging like she never wanted to let go. 

She didn’t, but she _couldn’t_ hold on to him, not when he was still keeping things from her. Not when she could never trust him. Emma had been down that road before and she knew where it led—jail time and a broken heart, and a son she would never know. 

Killian kissed her with a desperation that echoed in her soul, fingers tangled in her hair and clutching at her waist, mouth hot and demanding and achingly gentle, sweet and bitter, an elegy, an apology and a goodbye. 

As their lips parted he let his forehead rest on hers, his eyes closed. “We should go,” he said. 

Emma squeezed her own eyes shut, breathing him in. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m ready.” 

~

Graham was waiting for them at the station along with what seemed like half his precinct, sweeping Emma away while Killian was corralled by the others and leading her to an interview room like she wasn’t there all the time and didn’t know the way as well as he did. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” he asked her. “Coffee, or—” 

“I know what the coffee’s like in this place so I’ll pass, thanks.” 

Graham’s lip twitched. “Fair.” 

A knock sounded at the door and he opened it to admit his partner, a dark-haired man with a perpetually smug expression. “Emma, you remember August Booth?” he asked, cringing slightly when Emma and August turned to him with identical exasperated eye rolls. 

“Of course I remember August, he still owes me fifty bucks from the last poker night,” said Emma. “I know this case is a big deal, but can you please remember I’m your friend and not some stranger who needs to be handled with kid gloves?” 

“My friend,” Graham repeated. “Right.” 

August sat across from her and laid a clipboard and a small tape recorder on the table. “Emma, I need you to make an official statement of what you witnessed at Robert Gold’s mansion, do you consent?” he asked. 

Emma nodded. 

“And you consent to have your statement recorded?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Sign here.” 

She did, but before August could turn the recorder on, Graham spoke from the doorway. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Emma? You’ve had a stressful past few days, we can do it tomorrow—” 

“No,” said Emma firmly, wishing Killian were here and also wishing she didn’t wish it. “I want this over with and I want Gold to go down.” She nodded to August. “Let’s get started.” 

~

It took more than an hour, with Emma telling and retelling her story and August asking questions, pressing her for more details, for everything she could remember. When it was over she was exhausted and emotionally raw, with a pounding head and a fierce desire for a hot bath and a soft bed, and Killian. Maybe he would agree to stay with her tonight, she thought, rubbing her temples. Just for tonight. Just one more night.

She returned to the bullpen to find Graham waiting for her. 

“Everything go okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah, I think so. You’ll have to ask August for the details because my brain is mush, but… yeah.” 

Graham gave her a sort of half-hug, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck to massage it. “You did well.” 

“I’m just glad it’s done.” 

“Gold’s been remanded without bail,” he informed her. “You should be safe enough to go home, though I’m placing a couple uniforms outside your door just in case. Is your car here?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll get them to drive you then, too.” 

Emma shook her head and pulled away. “That’s okay, Killian can—” 

“Killian’s gone,” Graham snapped, his face going dark. 

“What?” Her heart twisted, bent and folded itself into a tight knot of agony. 

“He left half an hour ago. Said to tell you goodbye, and he’s _sorry_.” Graham’s eyes flashed. “What does he have to be sorry for, Emma?” 

She shook her head. “Nothing.” 

He snorted. 

“Nothing like what you’re thinking,” she snapped. Anger surged within her, hot and cleansing, burning away the pain. 

“So you didn’t—” He made a vague gesture with his hand, scowl deepening, and oh, Emma _relished_ this anger. 

“Didn’t what?” she asked with a tight, mocking smile. “Fuck him?” Graham winced, and her smile became a sneer. “Oh yeah, I definitely did that. And you know what? I’d do it again.” 

He clenched his fists, nostrils flaring. “So much for your high-and-mighty ideals about trusting criminals,” he spat. 

“I never said I trusted him.” Emma intended the words to sting but her voice rose on a wobble and she spun away, pushing and elbowing her way through the crowded bullpen towards the exit before Graham could see her tears. 

She was nearly there when his hand closed around her elbow. “Emma,” he said, softly and without rancour. “I’ll drive you home.” 

~

Graham pulled up in front of Emma’s apartment and turned off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment, she desperately clinging to the remnants of her anger and he staring at his hands. 

“Emma—” he began. 

“Why do you hate Killian?” The last of the anger slipped away as she spoke his name, leaving the hurt stronger in its absence, leaving her wanting only to curl into a ball and weep forever. 

Graham sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t hate him. Once I loved him like a brother.” He paused, his throat working. “Part of me still does.” 

“But then why—” 

“Because I don’t want to see you become just another woman he hurts!” Graham cried, twisting in his seat to face her. “Did he tell you about the others?” 

“He told me he’d hurt people—”

“Did he tell you he had an affair with Gold’s first wife?” 

“No, but—” 

“Gold found out and she turned up dead. Stab wound to the heart.” 

Emma’s own heart twisted even tighter. “That’s on Gold, not Killian,” she whispered.

"Maybe. But when Gold’s current wife got shot, _that_ was Killian.” 

“He _shot_ her?” Emma exclaimed. “I thought she was—”

“She survived,” Graham said harshly. “But Killian and Gold have a lot of ugly history and he had no right to bring you into that! I should never have allowed it.” 

“Graham—” 

“And then the way you were looking at him earlier—he’s not worth it, Emma! Whatever you think you feel for him, he’s not worth it.” Graham swallowed hard and turned back to face the steering wheel. “I’m not saying this out of jealousy.” His voice was low and rough. “I know that’s what you’re thinking, and I won’t deny that I wish there could be something between us. But I'd be happy just to see you happy, and Killian—all he’ll do is hurt you.” 

“He won’t,” she replied. _Not intentionally, anyway._ “He wouldn’t.”

Graham slammed his fists on the steering wheel. “For fuck’s _sake!_ ” he cried. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” 

“Every one.” Emma was surprised by how calm she felt, though the ache grew with every beat of her heart and tears hovered at the back of her throat. “I know how hard it was for Killian to lose your friendship, but it must have been even harder for you. Seeing what he became, knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it.” 

“I—” He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. It was.” 

“He hasn’t changed as much as you think. He’s still a good man at his core, despite everything." 

“Emma—” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to—” her voice broke “—to see him again. I know I can’t trust him.” She put her hand on Graham’s and squeezed gently, leaning forward to catch his eye. “But there is one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty, and that is that Killian Jones would never, ever hurt me.” 

Graham stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “I hope you’re right,” he muttered. 

~

Gold pled guilty to Felix’s murder, along with a dozen other charges of money laundering, fraud, and larceny. His plea came as a surprise to the district attorney, who had offered him no deal. The case against him was solid and she was hoping to make a landmark of it, expecting Gold to use all the resources at his disposal to fight the charges. 

“So why didn’t he?” Emma asked Graham. 

“Once his wife found out what he’d been doing, she threatened to leave him if he didn’t confess everything and accept the consequences, no strings attached,” he replied. 

“Wow.” Emma gave a low whistle. “I think I like this woman.” 

When Gold was sentenced to life imprisonment with no possibility of parole—the district attorney could smell blood in the water and pushed for the maximum sentence—Emma was in the courtroom to witness it. She had testified before the grand jury, coolly recounting what she had witnessed in the gallery with her eyes on Gold the whole time, unflinching even under his icy, furious glare. She thought about Killian and how his staunch support had helped her through the worst of her trauma, had brought her to this place where she could stand strong, look evil in the eye and see justice done. 

_You’re a tough lass,_ he’d said, and she was determined to live up to that. 

As the judge’s gavel fell, Emma was filled with a deep, primal satisfaction, and when Gold turned as he was being led away and his eyes found hers in the crowd, she couldn’t resist a smirk. This time at least there would be no escape from that justice. Not for Robert Gold. 

Killian wasn’t at the grand jury or the sentencing. She hadn’t really expected him to be, of course, but still she’d hoped… she’d hoped. 

Days passed and then weeks, weeks Emma thought would dull the ache in her chest and soothe away the itch beneath her skin, the one that urged her just to call him. But the time only weighed more heavily the longer it stretched, and with each day that went by the itch to call him grew both stronger and easier to resist. She knew his number, of course, and of course he must know she did. If he wanted to hear from her he would have said so. He would have left a message with Graham, or called her his damn self. She knew that he must have her number too. 

She went back to work, back to chasing criminals and deadbeats. The old thrill she felt at catching them was undiminished, but every time one spat at her or called her a cunt she couldn’t help remembering Killian when he’d been in their shoes, the challenge of sparring with him and how exhilarating it was, even when she’d hated him. 

Killian was rarely far from her thoughts. She thought of him when she was bored on stakeouts and found herself wishing for a book, when she ate a piece of the fruit she now found herself buying and when she put cinnamon creamer in her coffee. She thought of him when she slipped her fingers between her legs at night and when she cried herself to sleep afterwards. 

She thought of Killian every time she didn’t ask Graham if he’d heard from him, every time she resisted the urge to drive past his house and every time she bought a new romance novel, because damn it she was hooked on them now and she wasn’t giving them up just because every one reminded her of how damned much she missed Killian Jones. 

_Feel what you’re feeling,_ Killian had said to her. _It’s the only way to heal_. 

Emma had a lot of un-felt feelings—more than a decade of them, from as far back as the day she’d refused to hold her baby though his newborn wails tore at her heart. She’d refused to feel the loss of her son or of his father, refused to mourn Neal or acknowledge the traces of love she still had for him. Refused to let anyone else get close enough to make her feel—until Killian smashed through the walls she’d built around her heart without even trying, catching her off guard with kindness and bone-deep decency from the last person on Earth she’d expected to show either. 

It made her wonder if she might have misjudged other people in her life and if maybe, possibly, letting some of those people in might not be so bad. As much as missing Killian hurt—and it _hurt_ , with an agony that sank its claws into the very deepest depths of her—she couldn’t regret the time she’d spent with him. And maybe, she thought, possibly, that was what he’d meant by _healing_. Feeling her feelings didn’t lessen the pain of them, but it gave her the tools she needed to manage it. 

She felt guilty for giving up her baby. She felt stupid for letting Neal manipulate her but still sorry he’d died in the jail cell she’d put him in, sorry she’d never told him about their son. She felt angry at her own parents for abandoning her, and not even properly—not given her up for adoption just tossed her on the side of the road like a piece of trash. She felt weak for how hurt that made her feel and how worthless, and she felt angry at the system that allowed her to fall through the cracks of it, angry at a society that forced her to become hard just to hold on to herself. 

She _felt_. And then she began to heal.

~ 

A month after the sentencing an envelope arrived in Emma’s mailbox. A plain manila one without much in the way of identifying markings but thick and heavy. She tossed it onto her kitchen table with the rest of the bills and junk and then promptly forgot about it, her mind all on the deadbeat father she was hunting—the one who owed over $80,000 in alimony and child support to his two ex-wives and the five kids they had between them—and there were few people Emma relished nailing more than a shitty-ass parent. 

When she got home that night it was late and she was tired, looking forward to some Chinese takeout or maybe just instant ramen and her bed. She tossed her keys at the table where they missed the little bowl she kept there to hold them, landing instead on the envelope. Emma frowned at it as she retrieved them, and after depositing them firmly in the bowl picked up the envelope and examined it. The postmark was local but there was no return address, no company name or any other information about the sender. 

Graham would tell her not to touch it. But even if there were any associates of Gold’s still lurking out there seeking revenge on her, Emma figured they’d just shoot her and not send mysterious envelopes through the mail. She sat down at the table and ripped it open, and instantly she was wide awake. 

Within the envelope were records, financial ones, page upon page of them. Business records, bank accounts, tax documents. All in the name of Killian Jones, and each one helpfully annotated with notes and arrows and little diagrams, so that even her inexpert eye could recognise the picture that they painted. 

Emma stared at them in shock. This was everything she had spent months looking for, the hidden money that lay behind his legitimate businesses. Offshore accounts, shell corporations, all so skilfully concealed that she could never have hoped to uncover them. This was what he had refused to tell her about at the cabin. 

The papers wrinkled beneath the pressure of her fingers as she realised what this meant. Killian had given her every scrap of evidence the police would need to pursue charges against him. She could take it to them now and he would be arrested, and she knew that if she chose to do that he would go quietly, with no complaints and no resentment against her. He wouldn’t try to run or use clever lawyers and legal tricks to escape the consequences. She could send him to jail, where they both knew he belonged. 

Or she could… not. 

Something at the bottom of the stack of papers caught her eye—another, slightly smaller envelope. Emma opened it somewhat warily and stared again, this time in astonishment. Inside were more documents but these ones contained no evidence of crime; very much the opposite, in fact. One of them gave details of a foundation that had been set up to provide free shelter, counselling, and legal services to help teenagers escape abusive homes, while another described a college scholarship fund for kids in the foster system. This included money for tutoring, application advice, and SAT/ACT prep courses that would put the foster kids on a more equal footing with wealthier ones whose parents could afford such things. 

There were others too, women’s shelters and free clinics, and Emma wondered how the hell Killian had managed to pay for all of this. He was rich, sure, but most of his assets were tied up in his businesses; this level of investment was well beyond what he could afford on what he had that was legal and liquid. 

Her answer came in the last document in the pile. Short and straightforward, it outlined the liquidation of every single thing he owned that wasn’t strictly aboveboard, and how that money had been funnelled into the charities he’d set up. Millions of dollars, just given away, leaving him with a decent income from his remaining concerns but nothing at all like the wealth he’d had before. And it was done so neatly, Emma realised, all but tied up with a pretty red bow. The charities were funded with money that was sparkling clean, laundered so well it would take experts years to sort out how he’d done it. She could still turn him in using the other evidence he’d given her, without endangering any of the good things he’d done with his dirty money. 

Killian had placed his fate entirely in her hands.

Emma laid the papers down on the table, let her head fall into those hands and sobbed. Her emotions, wild and confused for so long now, resolved themselves, solidified and crystallised into one shining and inescapable certainty. She was in love, for the second time in her life, and once again with a man on the wrong side of the law. It was history repeating itself, the one thing she’d sought to protect her heart against, but with two crucial differences: Killian was not Neal, and this time her eyes were wide fucking open. 

~

“William Smee?” 

The little man appeared at the railing of his boat, smiling much less nervously than at their first meeting and wearing a red knit cap that struck Emma as oddly whimsical. “Miss Swan, is it?” he called. 

“Yes.” 

“Come aboard.” 

It hadn’t taken long to find him. The owner of the boat Killian had borrowed was indeed one of his employees— _his,_ never Pan’s. Though it seemed that Smee had once worked for Gold, until he’d messed up a job and nearly lost his life for it, until Killian had given him a reason to take on a different kind of employment. 

_People who owe me considerable debts and loyalty_ , he’d said, and he’d said the man’s name as well, loudly and clearly enunciated and within her hearing.

Emma climbed up to the deck to find Smee waiting for her, still smiling, his expression polite and expectant. 

“How can I help you ma’am?” he asked. 

_I’m pretty sure you know how_ , Emma thought, but she stated the obvious anyway. “I need you to tell me how to find the place where Killian moors his boat,” she said. “When he needs a bit of an escape.” 

Smee’s smile widened. “I’ll do you one better,” he said. “I’ll take you there.” 

~

Killian’s boat was there at the pier when they arrived, long and sleek and very unoccupied. Smee moored his own next to it, then turned to Emma with another smile and a proffered hand. 

“Is there anything more I can do for you, ma’am?” he asked. 

Emma took his hand and shook it firmly. “Nope, I can take it from here. But thank you.” 

“My pleasure,” said Smee, and handed her a life vest. “Take this too,” he advised. “Or Mr Jones will have my head.” 

Emma strapped the vest on securely before boarding the motorboat that was just where she expected to find it, though somewhat cleaner and with a newer engine than she recalled. It started up with a rumbling purr and Emma gripped the tiller carefully, steering the boat in a wide arc, less smoothly than Killian had but then she’d only done this once before—in an old boat belonging to August’s boyfriend’s cousin and for no longer than it took to master the basics. 

She aimed the boat as best she could for where she thought the river was, altering her course twice before she found it then nearly running aground on its narrow banks. But she stayed afloat and soon found herself emerging into the lake, rounding its curve and heading for the pier, pulling the motorboat up with what she thought was impressive smoothness and securing it to the piling, right next to another motorboat of a similar style. 

It took her a good fifteen minutes to locate the mouth of the stream, but once she had and had followed it a little ways up the mountain she spotted a Jeep parked along its banks. A newer model than Killian’s and in a different shade of green, but the keys were beneath the visor and Emma felt no trace of surprise at finding them there. 

She was better at driving cars than boats and it wasn’t hard to follow the path of the stream, a path she remembered quite well from her trip down it several months before. Soon she spotted the cottage off to her right and turned away from the stream, navigating carefully through the trees and into the little clearing. 

She got out of the Jeep and retrieved a large duffel bag from the back, withdrew from that the large manila envelope and a Zippo lighter and headed for the fire pit. Selecting a few from Killian’s store of seasoned logs, she arranged them in the pit as she had seen him do, tucking dry twigs in around them for kindling but adding no tinder. Instead she held the lighter to a corner of the envelope and watched it catch, watched the flames lick up and spread across it, devouring the papers inside. She held it up to the twigs until they caught fire then nestled it beneath them and the logs and watched the flames grow, leaping high in the air, the sparks rising up to meet the streaks of sunset just visible through the trees. 

“I hope you meant to do that, love, because I don’t have any other copies,” said a voice behind her, and though she was expecting it, waiting for it, _longing_ for it, she still gave a little start at the sound. “Do _you?_ ” 

Emma turned, her heart in her throat, to see Killian standing just to the side of the porch, watching her with soft eyes and a heartbreaking smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she retorted. 

His smile widened. “I definitely would.”

Her feet carried her towards him, around the pit and across the small distance that separated them, then launched her into his arms. “No other copies,” she said. “Though I kept the papers in the smaller envelope. All of them but one.” 

He stroked her cheek, fingers tangling in her hair. “Emma, I’m sorry,” he murmured. 

“For what?” 

“Leaving you like that, at the station. I just—I couldn’t—” 

“You had things you needed to do,” she said. “And so did I. But we’ve done them now, right?” 

“Yes,” he said fiercely. “I swear to you, I—” 

“I believe you,” she interrupted. “I _trust_ you.” 

He made a strangled noise, his eyes blazing with joy and awe and wonder. “You do?” he croaked. 

“Yeah.” She smiled softly. “And I love you.” 

“Bloody hell.” He pulled her closer, too roughly, his arms too tight around her, and buried his face in her hair. “I love you so much, Emma,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I wasn’t sure—I didn’t know—” 

“Shhh,” she soothed, stroking his head until he relaxed and loosened his hold on her, pulling back to wipe his eyes. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said. “Even after… after _everything_ , I wasn’t sure you could take the risk. It’s been—well, it’s not been an easy past few weeks. Months, really.” 

“For me either,” she agreed. “But we both needed it, I think. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking actually and there’s _so_ much I need to tell you. But first…” She draped her arms around his neck and gave him a saucy grin. 

“Mmmm?” he murmured, nuzzling at her cheek. “First what?” 

“First I’ve got a duffel bag full of marshmallows and chocolate and you, Killian Jones, are going to make a s’more. _And_ eat it.” 

His chuckle sounded low in her ear, the voice that followed it light and happy. “For you, my love? Anything.” 

“Good,” said Emma, and kissed him. 

—


End file.
